


Questions Answered

by delazeur



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair Needs a Hug, Alistair is built srsly, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Anders Gives the Hugs, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Canonical Character Death, Double Penetration, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Reconciliation, Evolving Complicated Polygonal Romantic Configurations, Explicit Sexual Content, Extended Separation, F/M, Fenris? Fuck that guy, General gruesomeness, Grief/Mourning, Hawke Needs a Hug, Hawke has a filthy mouth, Kink Meme, Lowtown alleys smell bad, M/M, Multi, Not really. Fenris Needs a Hug, Oral Sex, Sex Over a Barrel, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 54
Words: 196,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delazeur/pseuds/delazeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caralyn Hawke was willing to take a chance on the last person anybody thought would be good for her. When they were right she tries to get over Fenris by hooking up with that blond-haired stranger Isabela swears she's seen somewhere before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sex right off the bat. Weird, right?
> 
> Original Kink Meme prompt: 
> 
> Alistair was exiled from Ferelden by the f!Cousland he loved, while f!Hawke is nursing her broken heart after Fenris left.
> 
> Would like to see them find comfort in each other, first still thinking of their previous lovers, but eventually realising that they want to be with each other.
> 
> Bonus for Fenris getting his jealousy on when Alistair/f!Hawke is established.
> 
> No non-con or bathroom stuff please!

He was solid under Hawke’s hands and she knew that if he didn’t want to be shoved against the wall he wouldn’t be. So when she hit him with both her palms and he thudded into the bricks behind him she followed. 

Tall, broad, so much more to him than… well. She climbed him like a tree. His mouth was sour with bad ale, but she knew hers was fetid with bad whiskey and the whole alley smelled worse than inside the Hanged Man which was saying something. But as his hands settled under her hips and she fisted handfuls of his hair as she kissed him she let the scorching heat of his tongue in her mouth distract her. 

He pushed away from the wall and pivoted, pressing her against the bricks with his suffocating weight. Her arms ached as she held onto his shoulders, one of his hands bearing most of her weight while the other shoved the skirts of her robes up to her waist. 

When he tore her smallclothes there was a pain like ropeburn and it made her bite his throat. His arm curved around her hips, behind her ass, and she drew blood when he shoved two fingers into her hole. Not her sex, or her center, or any of the pretty dewy euphemisms of Varric and Isabela’s novels. It was a hole, and those two, large, calloused fingers pressing into it were an answer to a question she had been asking for weeks. 

She clung to him as his fingers fucked her from behind and his other hand opened his breeches just below where she was making the front of his shirt damp as she ground against him. 

His fingers were gone and he shifted her, tongue thrusting into her mouth as his cock pressed against the entrance to that hole. Oh… She broke the kiss and knocked her head against the wall behind her. “Oh.” It was the first word she’d said since they entered the alley and she said it again, through her teeth as he pushed into her. “Oh. Fuck.” He was big, thick, more substantial than… well. It felt like a punishment at first, a condemnation, but once he was all the way in, the bricks digging against her back and his sack brushing against her ass he waited. 

His face was in the curve of her neck as he waited, his legs trembling ever so slightly, the muscles in his back and shoulders twitching with effort, though she didn’t think with arms like his it was her weight that was hard to bear. But he waited until she ran her fingers through the hair at his nape and twitched her hips and moaned into his ear. 

Then he fucked her. 

She didn’t even chase it. She didn’t care if she came. That wasn’t what this was about. This was about the sweet hurt of flesh sliding in her and teeth on her skin and a world in which she could forget tenderness or affection because… well. She just wanted one question answered, one hole filled and the broad man against her, holding her to him did that. He did that just fine. 

His face was damp with sweat against her cheek, his lips hot in her ear when he came. The snap of his hips crushed her tailbone against the wall and he pinned her there as his cock pulsed and he crooned, “Elissa.” She let his shoulders go immediately, dangling her arms at her side. When his softening length started to slip from her she tapped him twice on his right arm and cleared her throat. “Right. Sorry.” He eased his weight away from her.

When her feet were back on the ground she twitched her robes down and then ran her fingers through her hair. He was two steps away, his face buried in his forearm resting on the wall. He’d tucked him cock away at least so he didn’t look quite as pathetic as he could have. Hawke gave him a companionable pat on the shoulder and turned back toward the side door of the tavern. With luck none of her miscreants and layabouts had noticed she was gone. 

They hadn’t. She took up her mug of ale and snickered into it at some joke Anders told, and if Isabela was eyeing her consideringly, well… the Rivaini pirate just did that, didn’t she? The door opened ten minutes later and she didn’t turn her head to see if it was him. She knew it was, but it didn’t matter. She had her answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Mage!Hawke has kind of foul mouth for the inner monologues. Her mother would not approve.

The silence around the table was unusual for Wicked Grace. Hawke felt the weight of it. Because Fenris had shown. It was the first time in a month that he’d slunk down to Lowtown to join them. It hadn’t been since… well. 

Hawke ran her fingers into her hair and sighed at her hand. It was a good hand. She’d won two out of the last four because of her willingness to let her adolescent emotional turmoil cover her usual tells. She could see Varric glaring at her from the corner of his eyes. She’d probably been made. Her eyes skipped over the rest of the table. Nobody else seemed wise. She called. 

She wished they were playing in the common room instead of Varric’s suite. She wished she could find a way out of the game when she was winning that wasn’t suspicious. She felt like her lady parts were shriveling and dying sitting across the table from Fenris who hunched around his cards and refused to look at her so hard it was like he was screaming how much he hated her right in her face. 

Fuck him. 

Anders, sitting directly to her left gave a little start and out of the corner of her eye she could see him watching her. Had she said that out loud? Fuck. Well, fuck a barrel of fucks. 

“I fold.” 

“But Hawke, honey, you just called.” Shut up, Varric.

“I fucking fold. This ale is shit.” She stood from the table, chair scraping loudly behind her. “Whiskey. I need whiskey.” She threw her cards down on the table and stomped out of the suite. 

Stomping was tricky as a mage who did not wear bulky plate covered boots. She managed. They let her go and she knew it was because she hadn’t grabbed her staff. Leaving the staff meant fresh drinks, food, the can. Take the staff: flounce, murder, wade through a sea of blood on her way home. Fuck Varric. And...

“Fuck him.” Her elbows were damp from the puddle of ale on the bar. “Corff, may I have your whiskey most vile. All of it. I wish to buy your entire stock.” The barman grunted as he set two mugs of ale in front of the gents around the far end of the elbow of the bar. Hawke lifted her arms and grimaced at the stains on her sleeves. 

“Fuck him who?” The voice asking was one Hawke hadn’t expected to hear again. 

She coughed after the first shot that Corff poured for her. He left the bottle. He’d live to see the morning at least. She turned her head toward the voice. “Is that a question you really want answered?” He was leaning back against the bar two steps away from her, thick arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“Well…” He attenuated the word with a sing-song lilt in the middle that made him sound too young to be in a tavern. “I think you have a name I didn’t mean to give. It seems only fair.” 

She poured another shot and pushed it toward him before taking two swallows from the bottle. He watched her throat from the corner of his eye and then drank what she poured him. “Fair. That’s cute.” 

“Isn’t it just?” He pushed the tumbler back toward her with the tip of his thick forefinger. 

Hawke wet her lips. “The cutest.” She poured another shot into the cup, watching his broad hand take it lightly between thumb and index finger and toss it back. She swallowed when he did and then took another gulp from the bottle in her hand. 

“That’s me. Cutest… er… wutest?” He cleared his throat and then stiffened as Hawke suddenly found herself with an armful of brown-skinned pirate smelling of ambergris and sandalwood. 

“Oh, sweet thing, introduce me to your friend.” Isabela’s face was pressed against Hawke’s ear, arm slung around her neck while Hawke grasped her waist so she didn’t fall. The floor was so sticky there might be no getting up again. “Wait, I know you. Don’t I? I do! I think.” 

His face, which had been open and oddly disarming in a way that was not at all sexy suddenly became hard and closed. “No, I don’t think so. Sorry.” He shrugged and pushed away from the bar, shoulders slightly hunched. 

“No no no, nonono, no no no no!” Isabela seemed to have an entire conversation in that one long string of noes. “Get back here. Elissa. Elissa Cousland and… oh shit.” She snapped her fingers several times at his retreating back before she gave up. Her lips were pressed against Hawke’s ear again. “She was sweet as pie, that Elissa. Too bad whatshisface Ser Handsome didn’t want to play.” She tutted and then started sucking on Hawke’s earlobe before she murmured, “Oliver. Alaric. Alistair. Laramis? Shit. Alisson?” She nipped Hawke’s overwarm flesh again and sighed. “Something like that.”

“Alisson? Really?” Hawke snorted. 

“Something like that! It was the Blight. At the Pearl. Things were heated. Who had time to learn the names of hot Templar stallions who didn’t want to play?” Her teeth sunk into Hawke’s skin just beneath her ear and they both shuddered for a moment. 

“Templar?” 

“That’s what they said. Whoever they are.” The pirate’s tongue flicked up the curve of Hawke’s ear. “Let me make you forget the elf, sweet thing.” 

Hawke stood straight, fingers still tight around the bottle in her hand, and slumped toward the door. “No, not tonight. Thanks though. Tell everybody I’m sorry. Wasn’t feeling so hot.” She shouldered through the door and out into the street. Without her staff, but with two-thirds of a bottle of whiskey. She’d get by. 

And fuck him. She drank and started weaving toward the Hightown stairs. 

Templar. Of course. His posture was all about missing the extra weight of plate mail. He hadn’t seemed to give one shit about fucking a mage against the wall in a seedy alley. She wondered if she’d be in the Gallows right now if things had gone differently. She had stumbled into him and he’d steadied her with a hand on her arm and then pulled her close and smelled her hair. Smelled her fucking hair. Like that wasn’t creepy? Fucking Templars.

Hawke plunked down on a crate at the mouth of an alley a block or four from the Hanged Man and took a drink from her bottle. 

Elissa Cousland? That was the Warden that stopped the Blight wasn’t she? The Hero of Ferelden? Hawke groaned and leaned back against the wall. If Isabela’s drunken ranting was true, and based on his passionate whisper of that name in her ear a week ago there wasn’t much reason to doubt it, Hawke had stepped in a whole other pond of political shit. She hated shit ponds. She really did. 

The flash of white in the darkness drew her eyes and made her flinch at the same time. She watched Fenris slink along the street toward her. His liquid green eyes reflected the smallest hints of light as they shifted from shadow to shadow, constantly scanning for threats. Fuck. He was fucking beautiful and she hunched lower on the crate in the shadow of the alley, praying to the Maker he didn’t see her. 

Those eyes paused for just a moment when they were cast her way and then skipped on. He was maybe ten yards past her on the street toward Hightown and she took three long gulps from the whiskey before she chucked the bottle at his receding back. It crashed against the wall four feet in front of his head and before he could turn back toward her she had scarpered down the alley out of sight. 

She hunched down behind a midden barrel, fists pressed against her eyes and shuddered in the darkness. She was sick a couple of times on the ground next to her and the sky had turned a light rose before she managed to drag her smelly ass back to the estate. She was just happy it was before her mother woke up. She didn’t want to field any of those questions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke runs her mouth. A lot. Aggro!Mage!Hawke likes to hear herself talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter with Fenris angst. More substantial with sexing to follow soon.

“I promise you this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, friend. Also likely your last. Ambitious of you to go out at the nadir of your common sense.” Hawke’s staff was planted on the ground, circled by her elbow. She leaned lightly on it. Her other hand was buzzing like a nest of hornets lived under her skin. Angry, murderous, magical hornets. “You are cocking up your own lives tonight, boys.” 

“You shut your fucking mouth, you dog-lord whore.” The ratty man before her was drunk, because at midnight on the streets of Lowtown pretty much everyone was drunk, and he staggered as his friend shoved him from behind toward Hawke. 

“She’d stop talking with a dick in her mouth, Jenner.” The friend, missing a front tooth and part of an ear, was grinning. Or leering. It was hard to take the leer seriously with the gap in his teeth.

Hawke rubbed her face against the hand curled around her staff and sighed tiredly. “I don’t know why I even bother with you shitbirds anymore.” She flicked her fingers at them and curled her cooling hand just below the first on her staff as she settled in to watch them. “You don’t listen. You’re scum. You rob and rape and I try to tell you that you don’t have to fucking die tonight, but here you are, scratching out your own eyes, chewing off your own tongues, drowning in your own blood. You die screaming because you don’t fucking listen when I talk, and isn’t that just the fucking story of my life.” 

The one who’d called her a whore, Jenner, was writhing on the ground with blood on his lips gargling pleas to the Maker to save him, to sweet Andraste or anybody to please help him, blood mage, demons, blah blah blah. The other one, Gappy the accomplice rapist, was simply twitching, runnels of blood in the gouges his nails had dug in his face. 

The sound of a sword ringing free of its scabbard drew Hawke’s eyes and she looked up to see Fenris round the corner, lyrium brands blazing. She hadn’t seen him since she’d thrown that bottle at him four… five days ago? He stumbled to a stop as soon as he saw the two men contorted on the ground in front of her. When he looked at her through the fall of his silver hair his eyes were fierce, blistering with outrage. 

Shit. That was the last thing she needed. Fenris looking at her like she was Danarius, using her magic to make lesser mortals grovel and shriek. It was easily the ugliest spell in her repertoire. Entropic energies were always unpleasant. She shook her head and turned away, her feet taking up her path toward the Hanged Man again. Not tonight. She wasn’t going to explain herself to the elf who dumped her pathetic ass why she was literally scaring two men to death on a Lowtown street. If he didn’t know her well enough to put that shit together, fuck him. 

She’d been thinking that a lot the last month. 

“Hawke!” Fenris barked at her, his bare feet making soft scuffing noises as he trotted to catch up. His hand on her arm brought her to a stop and she turned, arching an eyebrow. “Back there. That was…” He growled as she jerked her arm out of his hand. 

“Ugly? Sadistic? Evil? Tell me how you really feel, Fenris. Really let me taste how much you hate me.” She felt a twinge of regret as she took a step toward him, chin lifted and he retreated to put more distance between them. “Don’t worry. I won’t sully you any further.” 

“Hawke… did you mean to leave a giant sign that screamed blood mage for the Templars to find?” He was grinding the words between his teeth. His voice was gravel, the sibilants in his words sand. 

Her resolution not to explain herself shattered with a surge of rage. Blood mage? “Because there’s sure a shortage of crazy, murderous apostates in Kirkwall, right? It could only possibly point to me. And that wasn’t blood magic.” She spat on the ground between them. She actually did that. He flinched and shifted another half step back. “You are entirely too concerned with the one murderous apostate in this cesspool of a city that has broken bones and laws to prove she doesn’t want to hurt you. But fuck her. She’s plainly a maleficar because she made some slime who attacked her bleed.” 

Fenris’ eyes jumped to hers and then away just as quickly, his mouth twisting in disgust. She wasn’t making sense. She didn’t even know if they were fighting, or if she was just ranting like a completely unhinged asshole. But if he was going to hate her, she may as well be somebody worth hating. 

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Nevermind. If you see Varric tell him I… no, nevermind. You don’t owe me anything.” She turned on her heel and strode past the Hanged Man, deeper into Lowtown. 

Running away, yes, and normally that was his specialty, but Maker strike her dead if she was going to let his contempt spur her any further out of control where he was watching.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In In my version Alistair didn't wind up the funny drunk at the Hanged Man after exile. Hawke keeps on talking.

The Tidewater Tart was not the worst tavern along the docks. It was near the harbormaster’s office and as such wasn’t completely deluged with smugglers, Coterie thugs, or Carta trying to undermine the Merchant’s Guild. There were some, even a lot of those, but it wasn’t the type of place you’d automatically get your throat cut for your boots. She got a bottle and made her way past the knot of gamblers near the hearth to a table by the back door. 

Drinking was nice. Drinking to forget the strong, slender fingers of an elf whose skin tingled and sang when he touched you? Pretty fucking essential.

“You’re at my table there, sweetheart.” Hawke flicked her gaze up to the man standing over her and sighed. And here she hadn’t even said to anyone, not even herself, _what else could go wrong tonight_? 

“Meeran.” She took a drink from her tumbler of rum. 

“Well, look what the tide washed up. Messere Hawke. You get lost trying to get back to Hightown, dove?” Meeran’s eyebrows rose above his beady eyes. He’d lost more hair in the four years since she’d last seen him. 

The Tidewater Tart wasn’t the the type of place you’d automatically get your throat cut for your boots, but it was also the kind of place a score could be settled in the back alley without anyone making a fuss. 

“Fuck off, Meeran.” 

“What did you say to me, you robe bitch?” Meeran leaned forward, elbows on the table and smiled at her. Really smiled, as if this was the most delightful turn of events he could imagine. It was unsettling that a man with such thin hair should seem to have so many extra teeth.

“Pretty sure you heard me.” The tavern was noisy, full of smoke and bodies and Hawke was really having a shitty night. She leaned in to Meeran and let the tiniest spark of static jump from her fingers to his arm. “And I’m pretty sure you know you want to move away from me or I’ll put you to sleep and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you wake up alive.” 

Bravado. Balls out bravado was the only way she was getting out of this without at least a couple of broken knees. When she’d refused to kill that one last time for him she’d been counting on the Harimann family to keep the Red Iron out of Kirkwall. Sadly, old Lord Harimann had died insane and his daughter had been fucking a demon in the basement for years while plotting the grisly deaths of the Vaels. 

“That’s cute. Don’t you think that’s cute, Al?” Meeran smirked at Hawke and then turned his head as he straightened.

“The cutest.” The big, splintmail covered bruiser that Hawke had been studiously ignoring stepped forward and she had to try very hard not to sigh. Of course it was him. His face was blank of recognition as Hawke looked up at him but for the faintest divot in between his eyebrows. The Maker was laughing at her. Or punishing her for fucking a stranger in the alley behind the Hanged Man.

“It was nice of you to come by and shit on my shoe, Hawke, because I just hired on an gent who has the special skills to handle a robe like you.” Meeran lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of Hawke’s hair. “Take this cunt outside and make sure she dies. Don’t much care what else happens to her.” 

Anonymous sex in an alleyway aside, Hawke had no reason to believe that this guy cared whether she lived or died. If he was working for Meeran and his employer told him the latter... She wound up a pulse of magic that would knock them both back, dazed, and then hopefully she could get out of there without pissing her pants. Robes. Whatever. The spell fizzled, dead in the air, the palpable weight of a Templar’s silence settling over her.

The panicked widening of her eyes must have tipped Meeran off that his new goon had done something to her because he barked a laugh and then broke her nose with a balled fist. She was a tangle of flailing arms and legs, gnashing teeth and nails as this apparent Templar for hire bundled her out the back door she had so helpfully sat herself next to. 

“Owww!” What had Meeran called him? Al? Al clapped a hand over the place she had bit his neck as he tossed her off the back stoop onto the cobblestones of the warehouse row. She bounced and slid and fetched up against a stack of barrels. He pulled the door closed with a slam and then hopped down and walked toward her. “That really hurt. Am I bleeding?” He pulled his hand away red and wet and scowled. “I’m bleeding!” 

The tone, a little lilt, almost playful, that he’d used the last time she saw him was back in his voice. She staggered to her feet and held her hands out in front of her as if that would hold him off. “And here, I thought you liked that.” No staff, robes tangling her legs, no magic, outweighed by more than a hundred pounds. Her hands started to shake ever so slightly.

The curve of his lips was almost sweet as he looked at her and shook his head. “Do you heal? You should fix your nose.” 

“What?” 

“Your noooooose.” He grimaced. Was he grimacing contritely? 

“Why? Not pretty enough to murder this way? Friends you want to impress? You want me to meet your fucking parents and then strangle me at the dinner table?” She really was becoming an unhinged asshole. Ranting and feral, teeth bared. He hadn’t drawn a weapon. She wondered if she could bite him again before he broke her jaw. 

“You are more than pretty enough to murder at my dinner table. My dinner table would be _honored_. Have to pass on meeting the parents though. Orphan.” He gave a little wave, an honest to Andraste _sheepish_ wave and glanced back at the door. “Scream and then lie down. Crumply. Like you’re dead.” 

“You’re a fucking crazy person.” 

The lilt, all sarcastic and boyish, full of good humor was gone as he grabbed her by the upper arms and jerked her towards him. His eyes were hard as he stared down into hers. “Scream.” 

“I--” 

“Oh for the love of…” One of his broad hands came up and he jammed his thumb into the broken bridge of her nose and she did scream. Really, really loudly. The smite that followed was something she did not expect at all. It was a blast of crackling energy that felt like it tore at her soul but also rubbed broken glass all over the inside of her skin. All the places her magic lived were singing with pain. It knocked her back and she landed in a heap against the barrels again. He crouched down in front of her and brushed some of the blood from her nose under one eye, across her forehead. “Stay down.” His thumb, sticky and red, brushed her cheek gently before he straightened. She blinked at him stupidly and then let her eyes close. The world seemed to wobble for a moment, but she held onto consciousness.

She listened to him hop up the steps and open the door. If she could have made it to her feet she would have run now, but her ears were still ringing and her muscles were cramping and knotting while her hands and feet had gone numb. There was distant conversation and then Meeran’s voice louder as Al’s footsteps moved back toward her. His foot nudged her head and she let it flop and roll back. She wasn’t even sure she could have stopped it if she wanted to. 

“Did you want me back here after I dump her?” 

“No. You stay low for a few days just in case anybody sees you. I don’t want it coming back to me.” 

“Right. We wouldn’t want that, would we.” The sardonic exasperation in his voice made it hard for Hawke to keep her face smooth. She really wanted to bite him again. When he slipped his hand under her arms and hefted her off the ground he whispered, “I hope you aren’t ticklish.” Then she was slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour and he carried her away. 

It was nearly a quarter hour later before Hawke could fully flex her hands and feet and felt her magic return. She lifted her head and saw they were down by the southern wharf and shipyard where timbers were aged and tar kept hot for sealing hulls. There was a Darktown cut nearby. She shifted her weight slightly, preparing to elbow her… captor? Porter? Back alley lover? Whatever he was, she prepared to elbow him in the side of the head and set his pants on fire at the same time. 

“Quit wiggling, we’re almost there. You’re supposed to be dead, you know.” 

That brought her up short. “Why am I not then?” 

He turned a corner into dead end alley around the corner from the Darktown cut and eased her down on top of a barrel, helping her lean up against the wall behind her. “Do you need me to set your nose?”

“Why are you so fucking interested in my nose?” She laid her hands on either side of it, feeling the fracture and then applying pressure and a burst of healing warmth until it cracked back into joint, the pain and swelling instantly eased. “There. Better? Now come here so I can break yours.” The air, now that she could breathe it, was sharp with the scent of wood shavings buried in the acrid, throat coating odor of tar. 

He smirked and shook his head. “You’re a very angry person.” 

“Only when I’ve been assaulted, threatened with death, kidnapped, and smote. You smote me!” The rage at that sensation of helplessness surged back in her and she lurched off the barrel, lightning crackling around her hands fitfully. “Since you also lost my staff I can’t guarantee this won’t burn your ears off or make your eyes melt. Ugly side effect of having no way to focus it.” 

“I think it’s smited.” The smirk had widened into a grin.

Hand still licking with lightning she balled it into a fist and threw a punch at his face. His hand caught her wrist and he jerked her forward. The shifting blue-white light that danced over her knuckles cast his face in odd shadow, but she could see the hard line of his jaw tense and his eyes narrow. His other hand came up to cup her neck, thumb pressed under her chin and tipping it up. Her mouth went dry and she could feel a soft wanting, an empty ache bloom low in her abdomen. 

“I’m covered in blood,” she murmured, the lightning dissipating in a frisson of raised hairs and tingling nerves. 

His mouth twisted into something not quite a smile, hard and sour, showing bitter humor. “I was a Grey Warden during the Ferelden Blight.” His eyes shifted to look at the streaks of blood around her mouth and then lower on her throat. “It isn’t something that bothers me.” He leaned in and rubbed his nose against hers. 

That’s why he brought her down to the tarpits? Why he wasn’t seeing her when he looked at her? He wanted her smeared in her own blood with the air choked with smoke and filth, tar and ordure. It smelled like the burning of Lothering and he wasn’t here with her at all.

“Fine.” She coughed a harsh laugh and leaned back before he could try to kiss her. That caused a twinge of loss. He had an amazing mouth and the way he had kissed her like there was something in her that he was hungry for, that had been enough to pretend by. But not this time. She didn’t want to watch him fuck a memory. She pulled her hand free and his lips curved into a frown. She brushed her fingertips across them and then turned to face the barrel behind her. 

One hand splayed on the top of the barrel to steady herself, Hawke lifted the front of her robes to untie her smalls and push them down. She stepped out one slippered foot and then the other. She tucked the wad of linen into one of the pockets and then leaned over on her elbows. “Okay.” 

For a moment as his large hands fell heavily on her shoulders she thought she felt his fingers tremble. Then they slid down her back, circled her waist for a moment. One of them moved around to her belly, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there. He pushed lower until he pressed the pads of his fingers through the cloth of her robes against her mound. Just a little lower so that the pressure was sweeter and she rocked forward in surprise and sucked in a breath. He chuckled and leaned forward, face nuzzling into her hair while his other hand rucked up the back of her robe. 

This was not the sloppy, half-drunk passion of the other night. Hawke wasn’t sure what this was. His hard calluses dragged against her skin as he ran his hand up the back of her leg until he reached the crease where her thigh ended and her ass began and trailed back and forth there. His thick fingers slid over and between her thighs, then smoothed the damp curls at her cleft before dragging them harder over her perineum. His index finger stuttered at her anus and before it scraped up over her tailbone. When it circled back to the outside of her hip she realized her knees are quaking slightly and she leaned further down over onto her forearms on the barrelhead. He sighed as his face left the nape of her neck and her fingers gripped the the raised rim of staves. 

The hand on Hawke’s hip squeezed hard for a moment and then slid down to the back of her knee and lifted her leg up and slightly out, opening her thighs. The hand that had continued to press and nudge at her clit through her robes left her and she flushed at the soft grunt of complaint that caused. “Hold this up.” She let one of her arms be pulled away from the barrel top and her hand guided to the back of her knee. She shifted her weight so that she could balance on one foot and did as he told her. 

She let her head drop forward as she listened to him unfastening his sword belt and the buckles that held the faulds and codpiece of his splintmail in place. The air was cold and she shivered as she stayed where he put her. Grey Warden. Templar training at least. Mercing for Meeran. Who was he? She’d never seen more of him than his face and hands and she felt exposed, her ass bare, legs open. When he pushed her further down until her chest rested on the barrel as well she clenched her jaw. The gentleness in his hands made her feel cheaper than when they’d thrown each other at the walls behind the Hanged Man. 

Isabela had asked her once if she missed the sounds and smells of Lowtown, the stink of life, the sounds of a whore working in a back alley. He’d paid her with her life tonight. Letting them both forget that she’d nearly been killed by him didn’t seem so bad. But the firm, insistent press of his fingers as they returned to her body, and then the rasp of his stubble against the inside of the leg she was standing on? It was confusing. The hot flush of pleasure when his thumbs parted her so that his tongue could swipe from her clit to her ass was confusing. When his hard fingers began rubbing at the knot of nerves while his tongue pushed into her… fuck was it just a hole? A question? It was fucking confusing. When she arched back against his mouth with a soft sound of want she didn’t know what her component parts meant. Was she cheap or was she just so hungry? 

Bent over a barrel with a stranger’s tongue in her cunt, his fingers riding her clit with short insistent strokes, Hawke shattered. She bit her tongue as she forced the cries that bubbled up in her throat to soft pained groans. She felt tears sting her eyes when his mouth left her before her hips, caught between thrusting back to his face or forward to his hand, had stuttered to a stop. 

There was no time to come down, no time to relax, before he lined up behind her, pushing just the head into the place his tongue had been, so wet and suddenly bereft that she gasped and whispered, “Please. _Please._ ”

One of his hands clasped her shoulder and pulled her up just enough that he could bury his face in her hair at the back of her head without crushing her on top of the barrel, and then he drove into her. This time he didn’t wait, she didn’t need it, she was pushing back as he slammed in and the barrel and his steadying hand were necessary. His free arm looped under her upraised leg so that she could relax it and the hand that he freed found his wrist and gripped. He shifted that arm until his fingers could grasp hers. 

How could she feel the warmth of his fingers twined with hers so clearly when there was the sharp stretch and push inside her, the hard edge of the barrel bruising her hips, the friction where his other hand was rubbing at her from the front again, his lips on the skin of her neck? But it was the heat and the hard calluses of his fingers in hers that was the point at which all her other senses collapsed and when he curled over her and cried that name, _Elissa_ , hoarsely into her hair she came with him. 

He pulled away from her slowly, letting her hand go and her leg down, helping her straighten from where she was bent. She stood there with both her hands gripping the raised edge of the barrelhead for a long moment, head still dropped between her shoulders, while he clattered and shuffled his armor back into place. When he shifted and then stilled she pushed herself upright. 

His voice was low, roughened when he spoke, but with a tenderness that makes her skin crawl. “Do you need--” 

“Don’t.” She pulled her smallclothes out of the pocket she’d stowed them in and tugged them back on. His hand reached to steady her when she wobbled, legs still trembling and she flinched away, almost falling. “I said don’t.” 

“But--” 

“No.” She rounded on him. She knew there was sweat and blood on her face, maybe even a few tears, and he could silence her, smite her, break her in half. But she poked him hard in the chest. He probably couldn’t feel it through the armored splints. “You work for a man who wants me dead. Who thinks you killed me. You had better start thinking about how that conversation is going to go, and what happens the next time you bump into me. He’s going to hear, very soon. Hopefully from me while I’m liquefying his innards with all the destructive forces of nature.” She used Anders’ cadence without even thinking about it. She swallowed past the guilt that those words caused her, thinking of the wretched disdain that would flash in her best friend’s eyes if he knew about… well. Fucking Fenris? Fucking a Templar? Probably the same difference to the possessed apostate. 

“You think about what happens to you if me and five of my friends who aren’t mages catch you with him.” Does she have that many friends who aren’t mages? Was Fenris ever her friend? She feels ill thinking about him while her smallclothes are sticky and wet from what this stranger, Meeran’s lackey, left inside her. 

His eyes were hard to read in the darkness of the alley, but she could see enough of his features to see the wrinkle in his brow, the tight wince of his mouth. He reached for her hand. “That isn’t what this is--” 

Lightning encased her hand before his fingers brushed it and at the crackle and hiss he jerked back. “This isn’t anything, you fucking Templar.” 

“I’m not a--” His hands closed into fists at his sides. 

“And I’m done letting you touch me and think about the Hero of fucking Ferelden. My name isn’t Elissa. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. That’s all.” Was he going to let her past as she shoved toward the exit of the alley? Bravado. Remember that. Balls out bravado. She shouldered past him and he let her go, all the softness that had been in his face, the hurt, now hard angles and cold. 

The stench of air wafting from the passage to Darktown was welcoming and she angled toward Anders’ clinic. She needed to wash the blood off her face and the semen out of her smalls before she went home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe next time I'll write a chapter that doesn't use the word "fuck" "fucking" or "fucked" even once. 
> 
> Maybe...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Alistair or sexing in this chapter. Instead I give you Anders the shit-stirrer, silently seething Fenris, and Varric trying to teach Hawke manners.

The light was fading as Hawke trotted down the steps that led to the Lowtown market, the smell of boiled turnips and perpetually wet feet thickening as she approached the Hanged Man. She could almost believe she missed the stale beer and piss that covered the general odor of desperation that hung around Lowtown. She grimaced as she stepped in something thick and sticky just outside the door, and then pushed inside. Missing the smell seemed suddenly optimistic.

Three days hiding in her Hightown mansion with her mother had caused four different kinds of headaches. It wasn’t a record. That was the six Hawke had managed to catalogue during the voyage from Gwaren when her mother wept for Bethany, and fretted over Carver and Aveline, and just sort of… ignored Hawke. Early on in her friendship with Anders she’d spent a drunken evening describing in agonizing detail all six types of headaches, where they occurred, and what caused them. He’d laughed, appalled that she spent so much time growling about headaches her mother had given her over a year before, and Hawke had dumped a glass of wine on his head and pushed him over in his chair. She took her headaches very seriously. 

She also took seriously the fact that she was standing inside the door of the tavern that was nearly her second home, frozen and thinking about headaches, because as soon as she’d entered she saw the white shock of Fenris’ hair as he stood near Isabela at the bar, and that pirate was touching the skin of his bare arm above his gauntlet, fingers tracing the outline of his tattoos, and it was think of headaches or somebody was going to get seriously hurt. Probably dead. She should leave. Go. Or run through the common room as fast as she could to get to Varric’s suite. 

If she had a bottle to throw she might have thrown it right at the side of Isabela’s head when the pirate looked up at Hawke in the doorway and winked at her. The narrowing of Hawke’s eyes seemed to make Isabela laugh, and that made Hawke stomp past the bar toward the stairs. Varric’s note had said it was urgent. She’d go see what he wanted and then turn Isabela inside out afterwards. 

She knew! She fucking knew in that way the pirate knew anything that happened in anyone’s pants in their small band of… whatever they were. Friends. They were supposed to be friends. But clearly not good ones if Isabela was still trying to convince Fenris to show her what color his smallclothes were. Hawke shook her head. It wasn’t her problem. He wasn’t hers. He’d made his opinion of their single night together perfectly clear. It was a mistake. 

After he’d left her swimming in that giant bed alone she’d repeated the word, “Mistake,” out loud over and over again as she let tears slip out of her eyes and down to pool in her ears. No matter how much she wrestled with the word it wouldn’t fit what she thought had happened between them. She’d thought for a few painfully brilliant hours that they’d made love. But no, they’d made a mistake. But it didn’t matter anymore. He left and that was never going to happen again. 

Besides, she had no claim and no cause to be jealous. She’d certainly filled the empty spaces he’d left, the places on her skin where she needed hands or a mouth, with someone else. 

But Isabela? She should fucking know better. 

“Hawke.” Fenris had somehow managed to cut her off before she got to the stairs and he blocked her way, darting glances at her from beneath his hair, brows furrowed. She thought briefly about punching him in the mouth and then telling him how sorry she was, it was all just a mistake. Her hand balled into a fist, experimentally, but that led to thoughts of Al’s hard palm catching her wrist and being bent over a barrel in an alley, and for a moment she thought she’d be sick looking at the elf that she had wanted for years. 

“What?” Too curt. She saw him flinch but what else was there to say? 

“Do you have a moment?” He was watching her uncertainly now. 

“I got a message from Varric. Said it was urgent.” She stepped around him, and he pivoted following behind. This was a change. Him chasing her? 

“I would speak with you.” 

“So speak. You’ve got until I get to Varric’s door. Then be quiet and leave me alone. There’s a lot of shit going on right now.” She hoped this was good news about Meeran and the Red Iron. She hoped Varric had some lead on the Qunari poison and the whereabouts of Javaris Tintop. She really hoped that Fenris would grab her and toss her against the wall, all glowy and growly, and make her listen. Instead he just fell in stride with her. 

“I wished to apologize for what I said the other night. I did not intend to imply that you…” 

She stopped then and he nearly ran into her. When she turned and stepped closer to him his pupils dilated in his enormous green eyes, nervousness or anger at her intrusion probably, but he held his ground. He wasn’t that much taller than her, and the way he hunched slightly when he stood at rest made him seem slighter than he was. Why was she comparing his height to hers? Focus. Fucking focus. “You didn’t intend to imply that I use blood magic?” Her voice was pitched tight and low. “When you said that I left evidence of having used blood magic?” 

“Hawke… I thought it would appear to be the work of a blood mage to the Templars. I was concerned it would cause trouble for you. For all of us.” His tone took on a defensive rumble. 

“And what did it look like to you, Fenris?” 

She watched his eyes study her, taking in the slight residual bruising under her eyes from Meeran’s punch, the steely lines of her mouth, down to her balled fists. He sighed heavily. “The truth? You looked as if you enjoyed making them suffer.” His eyes shifted warily up to hers.

She flinched away from him. “Well, I’ll remember that the next time you go crushing slaver hearts with a song on your lips and joy in your eyes. Okay for you. Not for me.” Had she enjoyed making them suffer? Yes? She didn’t know. There was just so much clamoring and clanging inside her that she didn’t know how to properly feel any of it. It had to go somewhere. She turned back toward Varric’s door. 

“Venhedis, woman. I am trying to apologize.” His voice was roughened with anger as she walked away from him. The apology that she wanted to hear, the one regarding the _mistake_ wasn’t forthcoming. She didn’t respond.

Inside Varric’s rooms Anders was seated on the edge of Varric’s table, and he smiled up at her when she entered. Her scowl sparked laughter from him. “Watch it, you. I’m not in the mood.” He grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her to his side. Once she was seated on the table with him he leaned his head on her shoulder. 

“What has you in a snit?” 

“Nothing.” 

Hawke tensed as Fenris stepped into the doorway and leaned against it. 

“Ah. Should have guessed.” 

“Shut up.” 

It felt nice though, to have the warmth of Anders against her arm. She huffed out a sigh as Varric finished with one of his runners and turned to an older boy for another packet. So much for urgent. 

“Were you in the clinic the other night while I was out?” Anders’ voice was light, perhaps overly breezy. She had a key to his door, as he did to her estate basement. 

“Yes.” 

“Find what you needed?” There was a faint edge to his words and she shot a look at him. She’d been very, very careful to put everything back the way she’d found it, from the basin to the herbs that she’d compounded into a tea she took with her. Just in case. No room for those kind of accidents in her life. 

“Yes.” She hunched slightly, leaning away from him so that their arms no longer touched. 

“You know you can come to me, Hawke. I…” He reached over to pat her hand. “If I can avoid judging Isabela, I can certainly avoid judging you.” 

She growled softly under her breath at the comparison and he snatched his hand back. “How did you know?” 

“The pestle was leaning left in the mortar instead of right.” 

She stared at him, caught between a scowl and a gape. “The pestle was leaning left?” She didn’t mean for it to be a squawk, but it was. “Are you fucking with me?” 

The smile on his lips was mysterious but the crinkling at the corners of his eyes deepened until he laughed out loud. “Yes. Maker, look at your face. You left your smalls soaking in the laundry tub. I just looked around at which jars had been moved. You might think you’re sneaky, but you’re really not.” 

She had done that. She’d put them in the tub and then started really thinking about what she’d been doing and needed to make the tea right then. She never went back to the laundry tub. Fucking idiot. She glanced at Fenris and felt her stomach drop. 

He was staring at her from his spot in the doorway, his gauntlets creaking audibly as he clenched his hands and she looked away again, her face burning. 

She elbowed Anders in the side. “You are such an asshole. You are an asshole the size of which makes regular assholes shake their heads in astonishment and warn their children not to turn out like you. A Qunari dreadnought would get lost in you, you giant fucking asshole.” 

“So I take it you weren’t with…”Anders inclined his head ever so slightly toward the door, though his tone was not lowered enough that Hawke could even hope Fenris wasn’t listening. “Because he was here, and you were… not.” There was glee in Anders’ voice now. Whether it was with her discomfort and blazing face radiating shame, or Fenris’ slowly heaving shoulders as he apparently seethed from across the room, was anyone’s guess. Probably both. Asshole. 

“Fuck you, Anders.” She hopped off the table and moved toward Varric. 

“Oh, Hawke, don’t be like that. I love you! And I for one am glad you moved on.” He was glad because he hated Fenris, hated that Hawke would give her time to someone who reviled mages. She hadn’t told Anders she and the elf had made a _mistake_ , but she was sure he suspected. Moving on by having ill-advised sex with a mercenary in an alley? Especially one who had Templar skills and used them on her? Probably not a step in the direction Anders would consider healthy. 

Not that his judgment was sound, the possessed idiot. 

But a large segment of Hawke’s friendship with Anders involved inventive, if convoluted plots to overthrow the Chantry and put an end to the Circles. No, Anders wouldn’t be glad at all that she ‘moved on’ with the Red Iron’s newly inducted mage countermeasure. At the moment he was just enjoying a new way to make Fenris miserable. And her. Couldn’t forget her misery. 

“You want to tell me about him?” He quirked his right eyebrow and then smirked when Fenris hissed in Tevene under his breath.

“If he tries to kill you I’m letting him,” she muttered back over her shoulder. Maker save her. “I’ll hold you down. You deserve it.” 

She took a deep breath before she rested her hands on Varric’s desk and leaned forward. “Spill, dwarf. What was so important you dragged me down here to ignore me? Did Anders just need an excuse to be an--”

“An asshole? Yeah, yeah. I heard you, Hawke. You need to expand your rhetorical tools. More flourish, less pedant. The Qunari dreadnought image was nice though. I’d keep that.” The dwarf’s golden eyes were glinting up at her, but as was often true between the two of them, there was a sharp needling under his words. She loved him like a brother, more than her actual brother to be honest but with just as much snapping and scowling. It just made her crazy that he was always so damn circuitous about everything. 

“Varric…” 

“Fine, Hawke. You win. I’ll give you the short version. Meeran, dead. Red Iron, fractured. Tintop, above ground and running.” He gave her a lazy smile, eyebrows twitching upward. 

“Varric!” 

“Hawke, honey, use your words. I can’t tell what you need when you snarl at me through your teeth like that.” The dwarf shot a grin past her as Anders hooted with laughter. 

“I’ll kill you and eat your remains, dwarf.” 

“Dwarves are notoriously gamey. Not much good for anything other than sausage.” Varric leaned forward onto his desk, smiling expectantly. 

This game he played, forcing her to civility was always a bit of a gamble for both of them. Sometimes it made her take her temper in hand, take a step back, and think about what he said. Other times it would make her stalk away full of vitriol and violence and she wouldn’t speak to him for a week. Right now, burning with guilt that Fenris had heard Anders’ interrogation about her late night clinic visit, dirty smalls in the laundry tub and all, while her anticipation for the fight with Meeran deflated, but built for the hunt for Tintop… Focus. Come on, focus.

She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. When she looked back at the dwarf she kept her face placid, neutral. “Fine. Please, Varric, tell me more about these interesting nuggets of news. I’m sure that you have many relevant and fascinating details to share.” 

“Aww, you almost sounded like a real girl, that time. Smiling would help. But babysteps.” Thank the Maker. “So, like I said. Your problem with Meeran seems to be over. He was found floating face down in the harbor down by the shipyard. Aveline’s boys put in the report that he’d been run through by a sword, probably, but also had the back of his skull caved in. Still, easily identifiable. He was a floater, but no effort was made to hide him. They found him only hours after he’d been dumped.” 

Meeran was not just dead, but murdered. And dumped where she’d made her latest mistake. She could suddenly feel every hair follicle on her body, her pulse under the skin of her scalp. Meeran was dead and… shit. This felt nothing like a coincidence, but why would Meeran’s mage-smiting flunky do that? For her? Unless it had nothing to do with her, and was just about the captain discovering he’d disobeyed. The shock gave way to anger, because who the fuck did he think he was? The tingle in her scalp felt almost liquid as she went lightheaded with fury.

The hands on her elbows were Anders’, and he helped her sit. He crouched next to the chair and looked up at her before pressing his finger to her pulse point at her wrist. “Slow down, Hawke. Are going to faint?” 

“No, I’m going to incinerate whoever got to Meeran before I could. That fucker.” 

“Not if you’re unconscious, you won’t.” 

With a few slow breaths the darkness at the edges of her vision retreated. She shook herself sharply and straightened. “Sorry, that was just unexpected.” 

“She just apologized. Varric, you broke her. Do it again.” Anders lopsided smile caved into a wince when Hawke shook off his hand on her wrist and reached over to tug on the half tail he kept his hair in. She never tugged it quite as hard as he deserved. 

“Idiot. Please, Varric, go on.” Hawke was focused. Damn it, she was focused. She was not at all aware that Fenris was still glowering at her from the doorway, apparently not listening to what Varric was saying, but Hawke wouldn’t know that would she? Because she was focused.

“Right. Well, the Red Iron isn’t the biggest merc company in the Free Marches, but big enough to have four lieutenants between two divisions and with Meeran being offed…” He nodded his head side to side as if considering. “Well that leaves a bit of a leadership lapse. So there’s fracturing, fighting, the usual. Nobody’s sure if the bounty on you is still good, and if it is who will pay it.” 

She frowned at him. “There was a bounty?” 

“Yeah, I got wind of it yesterday morning, around the time they found Meeran. It hadn’t been posted long at all.” The dwarf’s eyes, always tallying, always considering seemed to be weighing her right now. “If I didn’t know better I’d say that his death might be connected to his offering a contract on you.” 

She buried her head in her hands, pressing the heels against her eyes until she saw blooms of red in the darkness. “This had better lead to someone I can hurt, Varric. So far I’m not seeing the good here.” 

“Well when mercenary companies get messy like this, it usually means a good quarter of them will wind up as bandits. You like hurting bandits.” 

“Please, Varric, I am begging you to point me to someone I can hurt, right now.” She lifted her head to stare at the dwarf and she felt Anders settle on the arm of her chair, fingers ghosting lightly over the loose braid her hair was gathered in. Her eyes shut for a moment and it was Bethany’s hand on her hair, settling her. 

“Turns out I can help you there. The Red Iron splintering drives prices down, and that means Tintop has finally come up for air. He scraped together some protection to get him out of town. So if you’re still on this poison he’s supposed to have stolen from the Qunari, we can head him off by way of Smuggler’s Cut.” Varric’s fingers drummed on the tabletop as he looked at Hawke. 

“What? Now?” Hawke pushed Anders from the arm of the chair and stood, eyes flicking from Varric to Fenris and back. “The four of us should do. If you’d all be willing.” 

Fenris’s right eye twitched slightly as he shifted his gaze between Anders and Hawke, but he inclined his head when she looked at him. He was the only one of them she doubted a ready yes from, and two months ago his companionship would have been just as required, just as _assumed_ as Anders’ or Varric's. The elf had been silent the entire time they’d been in the suite, but he looked like he was barely keeping a leash on whatever was bubbling inside him. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to come if he was going to force her to think about… well.

“Rivaini’s downstairs I think.” 

“Fine. Would you collect her, Fenris?” All of her earlier outrage at Isabela’s hands on Fenris had collapsed to a small, dense knot aching in her stomach. Fuck. If he wanted the pirate he should have her. He’d certainly had his face rubbed in evidence of Hawke’s inconstancy. She rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose briefly. Look at that, a new fucking headache. “I need to round up a staff. We’ll meet you outside the clinic.” She wasn’t sending him away just so she could avoid having any conversations about blood magic, or pirates, or dirty smallclothes, or moving on. Not at all. He narrowed his eyes at her, but inclined his head a second time and left. 

“Where did you lose your staff, Hawke?” Anders raised an eyebrow as he looked at her, but his expression became concerned when she shrugged and turned away. He touched her shoulder lightly and she tensed as thoughts of the alley surfaced, other hands on her shoulder and a slow flush crept up her neck, bloomed in her cheeks. She shook Anders off and tried to settle herself. Time to work. Time for violence. She was good at this part.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a bear. I'm not really happy with it, but I couldn't look at it anymore. I may write it from Alistair's POV at some point as an alternative. I swear the next chapter will have sex.

It should have been simple. Hawke had a replacement staff in hand, clunky and poorly balanced but with enough heft to channel her lightning and nightmare death. They’d take a quick jog through Darktown, nip into the Undercity, shuffle on through Smuggler’s Cut, knock open the heads of a few mercenaries, and throttle a dwarf until he gave up the recipe for the vomit-to-death poison. So very simple. 

Hawke surveyed the slope of the sandy hill away from the cave entrance, a narrow band of land on which a footpath had been worn by generations of smugglers gaining access to Kirkwall. Beyond the path the cliff face sheared off into nothing, with waves crashing far below. It would have been picturesque, if not for all the blood and bodies and killing. 

The first signal of trouble had been subtle. Anders pulled up at the mouth of the cave with his head tilted and frank befuddlement in his eyes. When Hawke quirked an eyebrow he’d opened his mouth, then closed it again, and by the time he opened it to maybe answer the unvoiced question, some voice had shouted, “It’s that bitch Meeran was after!” and then there were mercenaries rushing forward to die messily. 

There were lots of them. More than Hawke would have guessed given Varric’s song and dance about Tintop’s sudden bolt from cover. About two thirds of the force had turned toward Hawke and her friends. The rest were clustered around the dwarf, waiting for orders. 

The orders were apparently “quick, let’s fuck off while they’re fighting” because the dwarf and his remaining guards all turned toward the path leading north along the coast. 

Hawke didn’t call out directions. She leveled the first of the mercs running toward her with a pulse of force that knocked them back into their brothers-in-dying. Isabela and Fenris moved toward the retreating target while Anders circled between the two groups. At that point things got heated, and when she was finally able to take stock again, stepping over corpses with internal organs burst, or faces contorted in hysterical fear, charred by lightning, or full of crossbow bolts, the field had collapsed to one fight. 

One fight with three combatants: Isabela and Fenris had picked off all of the guards that followed the dwarf except one, and at a glance Hawke didn’t think they had a baby’s chance in the Black City of taking him down any time soon. It was impressive and fucking terrifying. 

The pirate and the elf fought with practiced ease together, Fenris forcing the attention of the enemy with the brutality of his attacks while Isabela circled to find unguarded hamstrings, kidneys, and throats. Their opponent, a big warrior wearing light mail and a helmet with a sword and shield, was somehow denying her any flanking position. He stood his ground in front of the dwarf cowering against a boulder. As Hawke moved toward the continuing skirmish Anders fell in with her and raised a hand to push a wave of increased vigor at their friends. They should have begun stabbing and slashing, dodging and thrusting almost faster than the eye could follow. 

Should have, but didn’t. The merc raised his sword over his head and the energy for Anders’ spell fizzled and faded before it could settle into his intended targets. “That one’s a Templar.” The lightning that Anders called next hit him but seemed to do little damage. It distracted him long enough for Fenris to get a glancing blow at his head, and the warrior’s helmet came loose and rolled across the sand. 

“Well that’s just fucking perfect.” Hawke’s words came out somewhere between a guffaw and a mutter. She sounded like she was being strangled and Anders cut a sharp glance at her, looked at the merc she was staring at, then back to Hawke. His mouth tightened and he shook his head. 

Of course the last mercenary standing was him. Strong jaw, hazel eyes, mouth that seemed to know her body’s secrets. Who else would it fucking be? Hawke jogged forward, shouting for Fenris and Isabela to withdraw, but either they didn’t hear her or weren’t listening. Isabela caught a blow from the man’s shield, knocking her on her ass ten feet from where she started. 

“Hawke, what are you doing?” Anders grabbed a fistful of her sleeve, trying to jerk her away from the fight. 

“Hawke, you gotta give me a window!” That was Varric who had been trying to line up a shot, and she had cut in front of him to block it. 

She jerked her sleeve loose from Anders’ grasp and strode closer to the melee still occurring. “Maker’s shriveled balls, Fenris, stand down!” It was the other man who paused though, his eyes widening when he saw her and that was enough for the elf. Suddenly the greatsword was embedded in his abdomen. He glanced down at the blade of the sword as if puzzled by it, and when it jerked free he grunted, before winding up a blow aimed at taking Fenris’ head from his shoulders. Hawke struck the ground with her staff, letting out a blast of force that knocked Fenris clear of the blade, off his feet and into a pile next to Isabela. “I said, fucking stand down.” 

Everybody stared at her. No panicking. No time for that. She owed him one, that was all. Besides if Fenris killed him then she didn’t get to. “Anders, I need your help.” She glanced up at the mercenary who was looking at her with an somewhat wobbly, thoroughly bemused expression. She could see blood running down his neck from a gash above his ear, and a thick red puddle was forming around his left foot. Hawke looked back to see Anders staring at her with a mulish expression. “Anders! Get your raggedy ass over here. Varric, Isabela, take care of Tintop.” 

The pirate groaned as she dragged herself to her feet, and converged with Varric next to the dwarf, who was still pressed against the rock, his rattish eyes darting from one rogue to the other. 

Once Anders was at her side Hawke grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him toward the injured man. “Make sure he doesn’t die,” she growled at her friend. When he opened his mouth, expression wound up to argue she snapped her fingers in front of his face, the gesture ending with her finger spearing him in the end of his long nose. “I don’t give a shit right now. No dying.” Anders rolled his eyes at her but closed his mouth. She pointed at the gut wound. 

She wouldn’t look directly at him. He watched her. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the way his head turned as she trotted over to where Fenris was sitting, arms curled around his knees. She had to take care of all of them.

Hawke dropped to her knees in front of Fenris. “Are you hurt?” 

His head lifted enough so that she could see his green eyes underneath the sweat-dampened clumps of his hair. He narrowed them. “I will live.” 

“That isn’t what I asked, you stubborn shit.” She grabbed his ankle and sent a rough pulse of healing into his body. She wasn’t particularly good at it, but good enough for field medicine of simple injuries. Shallow stab wounds, clean breaks, cuts and tears. Anything involving innards, eyeballs, or brain damage went to Anders. She forced herself not to glance over to where the healer was working.

Normally she wouldn’t throw magic at Fenris without asking, but she didn’t have time or patience for his attitude, no interest in coddling him through a fit of anti-magic pique. She certainly wanted nothing to do with the clutching guilt in her throat that the only significant injury he had taken was a pair of cracked ribs from where her magic had hit him. She healed them before he could kick her hand away, and she met his livid eyes with her chin lifted. 

“I did not need your assistance!” 

Hawke stood, brushing the sand off her knees. If he would have listened to her and stood down… She took a few steps back toward the others and was jerked around by Fenris’ hand. The tips of his gauntlets pricked through the sleeve of her robe and she sucked in a sharp breath in pain. “What the fuck, Fenris?” 

“Who is he?” His tone was low and guttural. “You attacked me with magic to save this man. Who is he?” 

She could have been breezy or deflecting. Not that she was particularly good at temporizing or skirting the truth. The glint in Fenris’ eyes, the cutting grip of his hand on her arm should have been full of simple fury that she had used magic on him to disrupt the fight. She was surprised by a lowering cloud of want in his gaze. And that was something Hawke would not allow herself to consider. “Let go.” 

“I asked you a question, mage.” The rancor in Fenris’ voice came as a surprise. The fluttering in her stomach at the thought he might be jealous, that it might spur him to admit there could be something between them… that fluttering died and became leaden in her stomach. 

She had never heard that tone from him before. The contempt that settled onto the word ‘mage’ was largely reserved for Anders and magisters. The assumption that she was required to answer transformed the pit of her stomach from leaden to burning.

“I said, let go.” Hawke didn’t pull her arm away, she stepped closer to him, jaw tightening. “Right. Fucking. Now.” If she had to hit him with a lightning bolt in the chest, she would do it. She thought. Maybe. 

Fenris’ eyes shifted all over her face as if searching for something, the sneer he wore softening to a scowl of suspicion. His gauntlet opened and she turned away from him, willing herself not to shudder. 

Her steps took her back to the others. “How is he, Anders?” Her voice was unsteady, causing the other mage to glance up at her. She tugged on his hair gently and smiled with half her mouth. 

His amber eyes flicked past her, and his gaze became narrow and brittle as he looked at Fenris. “No dying, like you said.” He shrugged and settled his attention once more on the work that his glowing hands were doing. Hawke didn’t look down at the injured man and moved over to where Tintop sat disconsolately in the dirt. 

The interrogation of the dwarf was tiresome. No, he’d never had the poison. It had been a setup. And thanks a bunch for killing all his hired guards. She rubbed her forehead and sighed before waving him away to begin looting the boots off the dead mercenaries. She wandered over to the cliff edge. The next person she looked at was likely getting pushed off. 

There was a tingle on the back of her neck as Anders’ fingers settled there and the pain building in a large, throbbing knot just behind her left ear loosened, spread, and faded.

“Headache number three?” 

“You’re getting good at that.” She folded her arms, staring out at the sea. 

“So, Isabela says your friend there was with Commander Cousland during the Blight.” His face was half turned toward hers.

“Did she?” 

“And he is definitely a Grey Warden. Or was. I could sense him coming out of the tunnels.” 

Hawke remained silent, shifting her shoulders and straightening her neck. They needed to get back to Kirkwall. They needed to track down one elf in the whole city who had the saar-qamek. She didn’t want to look at any of her companions right now. 

“And he has Templar training.” Anders tone wasn’t exactly neutral, tight, but not dripping with accusation or loathing. “But that didn’t seem to surprise you.” 

A puff of breath escaped her lips, blowing a strand of hair away from her nose. “Do we have to do this right now?” 

“If not now, Cara, then when? If he’s got Templar sympathies he is a danger to you, and to me, and to the cause.” Anders sounded truly furious now, turning half toward her and folding his arms. He stared down his nose at her with narrowed eyes, the feathers of his coat fluffing and fluttering in the wind. He looked like an angry grackle.

“He saved my life. Meeran wanted me dead. He didn’t do it. I was silenced, it would have been easy.” She spoke in quick, taut bursts, shoulders hunched under Anders’ increased scrutiny. 

“He silenced you?” 

“Look, Meeran found me at the Tart on the docks. It was full of his men, and he ordered his new guy--” she waved vaguely toward where the subject of their conversation was arguing with Tintop, “--to kill me. He let me go after making Meeran think he’d followed orders. I owed him.” She scowled at her friend and nudged him with her elbow. “You look like I set fire to a basket of kittens. What was I supposed to do? Let Fenris kill him?” 

Anders’ expression had softened slightly, but it was a new kind of concern and then anger that grew there. “This was the night you didn’t show up at the Hanged Man? He didn’t… you with the tea and the clinic… did he?” He sputtered and something black bloomed in his voice. “If he took advantage of--” 

“Anders!” It was a shout, and she could see from the corner of her eye the swiveling of everyone’s heads toward her. She continued in a much lower tone. “Enough! I’m not talking about this anymore. He isn’t a rapist, if that’s what you’re fucking asking. He…” She hid her eyes with her hand for a moment. What was he? A gentleman? A considerate lover in less than ideal circumstances? Someone whose name she wanted to know now that he wasn’t drunk, or smiting her, or bleeding out in the sand? She took a deep breath and let her hand drop.

“You knew Elissa Cousland, didn’t you?” She was avoiding looking back over her shoulder at the others. She could hear Varric’s broad, exclamatory tones, but no words, and Isabela’s laughter in a rich peal. 

“She’s the one who conscripted me.” Anders shifted, his frown still worrying the corners of his mouth. “I don’t see what…” 

“Did she ever talk about anyone? About him?” she asked in a tone that was softer than she intended. The edge of the cliff was two steps away. She didn’t want to have to throw Anders off, but if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass pretty fucking quick she might consider it. 

He looked at her pensively for a moment. “Well, she mentioned a big dopey warrior she traveled with. The Grey Warden who got away. Alistair? She said he was an insubordinate traitor who deserted. I admit I was always curious. You know how I feel about men in uniform who don’t respect authoritarian bureaucratic organizations.” His expression was distant and soft for just a moment before a slow smirk spread on his lips, masking whatever nostalgia had bloomed in his memory. 

“Oghren was with her during the Blight as well. He said ‘the boy’ loved the Commander so much he would have cut off his sword arm for her and she exiled him because of politics. But the dwarf was drunk and covered in his own vomit at the time.” Anders’ smirk widened. He had never talked much about the Warden-Commander. He told tales occasionally of his fellow Wardens, his cat, the darkspawn that talked, but not the woman who conscripted him. 

“Alistair,” she repeated. Thank the Maker she finally had a fucking name.She took in a deep breath and turned toward the group. “Alright then. Back to Kirkwall. An elf to kill, cities to save. Whatever.” 

She loved Anders, she really did. He reached over to give her a firm side-hug around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head before he let go. “I’m here, Hawke. Just let me know what you need.” 

She watched his long legs carry him across the ledge of sand and sedge to the others and her heart swelled with gratitude as he stopped just long enough to snipe at Fenris. Whatever he said dragged the angry elf along in his wake. Isabela and Varric fell in step just behind. The dwarf chortled as she handed him a sovereign. 

Hawke glanced at… Alistair. He folded his arms as he frowned down at Javaris Tintop. 

“Fine! Sodding dog-lord nug-humper!” The dwarf threw up his hands and stalked away, dragging a sack of boots behind him. 

Alistair shook his head and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck before turning. He froze when he met Hawke’s eyes and she felt something like a blush bloom in her cheeks. Fucking perfect. She shot a quick glance after the figures of her friends who were disappearing into the cave. Fenris was already gone, and she felt an abrupt cascade of relief. 

When he fell in beside her as she made for the tunnel, his voice was low and droll. “Well. I suppose I should thank you for, um, that.” She had to tilt her head to look up at him. His features were still arranged in a bemused half-smile. 

“Yes. You should.” Her reply was flat and dry. 

“Ahh. Well, yes. Thank you?” 

She snorted. “How are you feeling?” They had reached the entrance to the cave and her friends were out of sight around the first bend of the tunnel, though she could hear the sound of Anders and Fenris bickering with all the acrimony she expected. It was loud, and distracting. She was going to get Anders a new coat, and his own room in her house, and a cat. 

“Significantly less impaled than half an hour ago. Still slightly stabbed.” He was trying not to smirk, but he was failing. “Your friend does good work. As good as Wynne.” He waved a hand. “Not that you’d know who she is. She’s a Circle mage, you’re an apostate, so you’d never have met her. I know that not all mages know each other.” He glanced sideways at her. “And here’s where you tell me you do know her and I look like an idiot. Or a bigger idiot.” 

Maker, he sounded almost like Merrill with the babbling. She tried not to smile at the image of the Dalish elf and the big warrior chatting nonsensically over tea.

“I don’t know her. I know the name. She was one of Anders’ teachers.” She nodded vaguely ahead. “Kinloch Hold escapee. Grey Warden runaway. He was conscripted by the Warden-Commander. You might know her. Elissa Cousland?” 

Alistair stopped and Hawke trailed a few steps ahead before she paused and turned to look back at him, eyebrows raised. “Problem?” She gave her staff a soft rap on the stone floor of the tunnel and two dancing wisps appeared above her head, letting her see more of his face. The half-smile was gone, replaced by the hard line of his jaw, the narrowed eyes that she remembered from their previous parting. 

“You… you are very provoking. Did you know that?” 

She shrugged one shoulder and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling of the tunnel. “The world is full of idiots. Provoking can show who is useful and who is dead.” 

“And what would you use me for?” That shouldn’t be as affecting as it is. She looked up at him with crooked smile. He blushed faintly as he realized the implication and closed the distance between them. His hand moved up to cup her cheek and she felt her body respond before she consciously realized what he was doing. “I mean, if you’re using people, they should know what for exactly. Details are appreciated.” 

Suddenly life seemed infinitely more complicated. Her lips parted as his thumb brushed across them and when he leaned toward her she jerked back. “Fuck you.” 

“Well, that isn’t really detailed, but it is specific.” 

Hawke knocked his hand away and stepped back. “No. Just… no.” His eyes held the same clouded desire she’d recognized at the docks, as if he wasn’t seeing her, but smelling blood and feeling violence singing in his veins. She thought she wanted… what? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t happen here, not with her friends fifty yards ahead in the tunnels, maybe waiting for her. And certainly not with the name of the Warden-Commander rattling around in the forefront of his mind. “I told you. I’m not--” 

The name she nearly spoke was swallowed by his mouth. He was so fucking fast for such a big man and his arms were around her and his lips were hot and soft, contrasted with the scrape of stubble and the firm press of his tongue into her mouth and she kissed him back before she remembered she should be setting his hair on fire. When she struggled he loosened his grasp. 

“No, I don’t… not her. I…” His voice was rough as his lips brushed hers. “I don’t know your name. They call you ‘hawk’ but I… I want...” 

“Hawke is my name.” She leaned away as his nose brushed against hers. She refused to notice how his eyes were rich with gold flecks as he looked at her. “Caralyn Hawke.” When he tried to pull her into another kiss she stiffened and shook her head, eyes darting up the tunnel toward the rest of her party. “No. Not here, not with them just… No.” 

There was something a little sad, a little bitter in the almost-smile he gave her. “You and that Anders, huh?” 

“What? No! No, not, no. Not even a little.” She shook her head emphatically. “He’s… he’s family, and I’d kill anybody who looked cross-eyed at him... but not like that.” 

His hands rested on her shoulders and he looked down at her. “Not the elf… the elf? Really?” His mouth opened, aghast, and then he frowned intensely. “That must be a wonderful arrangement you have. He didn’t seem to like you very much.” 

Hawke shoved him away with all the strength in her arms, and either he was weaker than he let on after being healed or he let her go. Her voice was harder, louder, angrier when she repeated, “Fuck you.” She turned and stalked along the tunnel ahead of him, trying to lengthen her stride to catch up to the group. Here, Hawke, this was a picture of an idiot. Wanted him? She didn’t know anything about him. Her desire, her _love_ , for Fenris had been born out of years of push and pull and to want this stranger felt… it was wrong. She was doing it wrong. 

Despite his injury he caught up quickly. “Look… I’m not any good at this.” He reached over and touched her shoulder with a brush of his fingers but didn’t try to stop her. “Maker knows, I might be the worst who ever lived. But please, Caralyn, I am sorry if I hurt you.” 

The itch to slap his face festered in her palm and she skidded to a halt, turning to look up at him incredulously. Did he actually use her first name? Nobody did that except her mother, and ever so occasionally Anders. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you trying to… what? I kept you alive, you didn’t kill me for Meeran. We’re even. We even managed to square up who came how many times. Don’t you think that’s enough? You wander off to wherever orphan Grey Wardens go, and I’ll go back to keeping this city from burning down, and we can both die alone and unloved and miserable.” Her ears burned as he blinked at her. At first she thought he looked hurt, but no… that was worried. Fucking void. 

His broad shoulders lifted and fell as he sighed, but he mustered a lopsided grin as he shrugged at her. His face was rugged and handsome until he grinned like that, and he became younger and ridiculous and sort of beautiful in a way that made her ache and feel guilty that she even cared. When he spoke he was looking past her, over her shoulder, as if he wasn’t addressing her directly. “Well, you certainly are a poet.” He cleared his throat . “I’ll be staying in Lowtown, that horrible inn with the dead sexy alley… oh you remember it? I’m sure you do. Maybe I’ll see you.” His hazel eyes glinted green in the shifting light of her wisps and he smiled at her. 

The smile was painful. It pretended to be open and playful, and maybe once he had been able to smile that way, but much like Anders whose lighthearted wit and teasing was a mask for how much hurt he had underneath, Alistair’s smile was a lie. She wanted suddenly to kiss him until he really smiled at her, while simultaneously wanting to electrocute him for making her feel that. Like the damage Fenris packed around wasn’t enough for her? She was going to let herself give a fuck about whether or not this stranger could muster a genuine smile? What the fuck was wrong with her? 

Hawke opened her mouth and then closed it, shaking her head. “Alistair… I can’t.” And she couldn’t. Letting their bodies come together in the shadows of an alley was one thing, but now there were names and faces, and caring whether he lived or died, and she didn’t need any more of that bullshit in her life. “I just can’t.” She turned and lengthened her stride to catch up to her friends, and though she listened for his hurried, heavier footfalls, they did not pursue her.

When Varric and Isabela turned their heads to look at her, the pirate’s dark eyes narrowed into a glower, her lips twisting into a pout, and Varric dropped back to slap Hawke on the back. Before she could ask what that was for, Isabela had flipped the dwarf another sovereign, and Hawke pushed past Anders and Fenris into the lead of the group, trying not to grind her teeth. 

What the fuck was wrong with her?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caralyn Hawke seeks comfort and it turns out Alistair likes to snuggle. Not that anyone is surprised by that.

Hawke hated dithering. She fucking hated the feeling of imaginary eyes on the back of her neck, judging her while she weighed options. Sometimes she imagined her father’s eyes, wondering if he’d approve, if he would have a solution that was elegant or clever. Or Bethany’s dark eyes urging compassion. She wondered sometimes if they watched her and sighed when she balled a fist or… provoked people. But there was a strength of conviction in her impulsiveness that was comforting, and she would much rather deal with doubt later. 

It was standing on the threshold of anything, fearing the actual decision, and wavering that bothered her. She was more than able to live with a bad decision as long as it was hastily made. She’d had plenty of practice, but Maker save her from the fucking dithering. 

She darted another glance down the back hallway of the Hanged Man. Still no one. She lifted her hand and almost knocked. Again. She held the fist that had failed to fall onto the door aloft for a moment and then pressed it against her forehead hard enough for the knuckles to bite into her brow. 

It had been four days since she’d seen him. Three nights of sobbing herself awake, replaying the nightmare that the saar-qamek had caused. She was a little drunk, a little angry, and scared shitless of trying to sleep knowing that the empty eyes of children who had been cut open with tailor’s shears from groin to ribcage were waiting to accuse her of failing them. There would probably be another pride demon hovering that whispered it could give her the strength to save them all next time. 

Hawke had seen horrible things in the Deep Roads, the gruesome and the grotesque conjured by blood mages. She’d seen her closest friend pull Templars apart with his bare hands as if they were tatty ragdolls stuffed with red silk ribbons. But the thing she had nightmares about was families poisoned in their houses in the middle of the night, butchering each other or choking to death on their own sick, because she hadn’t found the elf, the zealot, who had the saar-qamek soon enough. 

That mother with the shears buried in her eye socket, four dead children split open like cleaned trout and stuffed with… she kept flinching away from that, the smell of roasting meat with onions and apples and the smallest child, a baby… she wished she’d scratched her fucking eyes out before she’d gone in that house looking for survivors. In Hawke’s dreams, for the first time in her life she almost listened when the demon spoke. She told it to fuck itself, and woke screaming impotently into her pillow, but she was shaken enough to hear it. 

The fist against her forehead loosened and she rubbed at her eyelids with a bleary sigh. She wasn’t sure why she was here. She’d avoided the Hanged Man ever since she’d spoken with Alistair in the tunnels, and tonight when she couldn’t face another night of slow dread and broken sleep she’d drank a bottle of wine. She’d been halfway to Fenris’ mansion, ready to rant and scream at him about the supposed honor of the Qunari letting that poison be stolen on fucking purpose, when she realized she couldn’t bear for him to see her unmade by this. He’d seen her face at the time, and she didn’t want anyone to know she was dreaming about it, least of all him.

“What the fuck are you doing, Hawke?” The ambient noise of the inn swallowed her whisper. She should have gone to Varric and drank herself stupid while he told her stories about herself that painted her as an actual hero and not just someone who was particularly good at hurting people with magic who occasionally blundered into saving strangers. Or she could have stumbled down the cellar stairs to Anders and talked magic or mage rights or Templar murder while he brewed potions and she proofread his manuscript. 

Instead she was standing alone, opposite the door of the man she’d very clearly declined the company of not even a week ago. She slid down the wall until she rested on the floor, her legs folded to the side and her chin on her hands. Fucking dithering.

Several minutes passed before Hawke felt a faint brush against her left shoulder and when she turned her head there was a bottle of rum nestled against her hip. She stared at it for a moment and a rap against the door across the hall jerked her head up. The sound of boots on the raw plank floor caused her head to swivel right where she saw a flash of warm brown skin and the long white panels of an indecently tailored tunic before it rounded the corner. And laughter. Best not forget the fucking laughter as the door opened. 

Fucking pirates. Fucking void taken slattern pirates who couldn’t mind their own cocked up business. 

The soft sound of a man’s throat clearing drew Hawke’s eyes back to the doorway. Alistair was standing there with a puzzled frown, one eyebrow raised, as he looked down at her seated on the floor. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you… here. On the floor. Outside my room.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. His frown became darker and he turned away, his movements a little too precise. He was probably as drunk as she was. He disappeared back into his room, but left the door open. Well, now she had to at least say hello. Fucking Isabela. 

Hawke struggled to her feet, kicking over the bottle of rum and then staggering a step forward as she bent to grab it. She rested a hand on the open door frame and then thrust the bottle before her over the threshold. “Drink?” The room was small compared to Varric’s suite, mostly just a bed and a shallow fireplace that drafted poorly. The room smelled like woodsmoke and stale beer. It was a step up from the smell in the hallway. 

Alistair stood at the foot of the bed, fiddling with the sleeve of his loose shirt. He hadn’t shaved in several days, a scruff on his cheeks and jaw. She could see the stark lines of the tendons in his neck from the tension in his shoulders. She realized she was staring. She was staring but not leering. He was barefoot and his breeches were not laced all the way up. Yes, she was leering, like some fuck-drunk Rivaini whore. Not that she knew any of those. 

“You weren’t the one who knocked, were you?” He took the bottle from her hand and looked at the label. After a grimace he pulled the cork out and took a drink directly from it. His eyes were dark and flat as he looked at her. “I could hear you pacing around out there, muttering. But you weren’t the one who knocked.” 

She had to come further into the room to take the bottle back from him. She took a small drink and then shrugged. “No. It’s a bad idea.” 

“What? Knocking? Oh yes, isn’t knocking simply the worst?” 

The rum sloshed in the brown glass as she gestured back and forth between them. “This. This is a bad fucking idea.” She didn’t want to feel easier for seeing him. She didn’t want to have the desire to climb him, wrap her arms and legs around him, and cry. He wouldn’t know why she cried, wouldn’t know what had happened because of her. But no fucking crying.

The lopsided smirk that twitched on his mouth did nothing to lighten his eyes. He circled behind her and pushed the door closed. “I seem to recall someone telling me that this isn’t anything.” He leaned his back against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“I...” 

“Yes, you.” He looked down at her and then held his hand out for the rum again. She had to move several steps closer to put it in his hand and when his fingers closed around the neck of the bottle they trapped hers. “What are you doing here if this is a terribly bad not anything idea?”

Hawke tugged her hand away, letting him take the bottle and wriggling her fingers free. Her face flushed and she grunted irritably. It was a good question. A sane question. Even coming from a drunk Grey Warden mercenary Templar with flat, glazed eyes and a distant stare. What was she doing there? She was looking for someone to give a shit about how she felt? She shrugged and waved a hand at him abruptly. “Nothing. Apparently I’m doing nothing here. If you’d get the fuck out of my way, I’d leave.” 

“Oh, am I inconveniencing you? How irresponsible of me. Well, let me just move.” He walked to the sideboard and dropped the bottle next to the others with a thunk. 

It was Hawke’s intention to step forward, jerk the door open angrily and throw some cutting and vitriolic remark over her shoulder. Instead she found herself pressed face first into the closed door, his weight heavy on her back. His stubble scraped at her ear as he murmured, “Or did you come for this?” 

The moment stretched in silence except for the soft scritch of her nails against the rough wood of the door next to her face and her slow shuddering breaths. She closed her eyes and slowly arched back against him. This was what she came here for, to be pinned and filled with something other than the void of her failure. “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse and she tried to rub her ass against his thigh where it pressed her forward. 

When his weight disappeared she sagged, going halfway to her knees before she caught herself on the door handle. She turned, unsteady, to see him sit on the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, head sunk between his shoulders and looking at her past his brows. He shook his head at her, and the flat distance in his eyes was replaced by a vacant desolation. “No. Maybe you were right. Before.” 

“No?” Hawke’s head spun a little as she straightened to her full height and took a step toward him. “I was leaving… you just… You… fucking… “ She was dissolving. She had come here to cling to something solid, something corporeal, and as the certainty that she could find a fingerhold on her own realness failed, she dissolved. The horror she was running from flashed with each hard blink of her eyes. She refused to cry. She didn’t fucking cry about these things. Not even over the corpses of children slaughtered and dressed for the spit or three stray dogs fighting over the tub of offal that had come from their small, underfed bodies. 

“What are you doing?” Alistair sat up straighter as she approached. 

Her hands were shaking as she shoved at his shoulders, tried to push him back onto the bed, but he was too solid and when one of her hands cuffed his ear he grabbed her wrists tightly. She sank to the ground on her knees, arms stretched up to where he held them, panting and trying not to shout at him. 

One of his hands let go of her wrist and settled on her face. The soft touch of the hard, swordsman’s hand made Hawke flinch. She glared up into his eyes, teeth clenched and shaking all over in small waves of spasms. 

“Maker, what happened?” The despondency was gone from his eyes and his other hand released that wrist as well. Her shuddering slowly subsided as he anchored her with a hand on either side of her face. 

“Don’t.” Her voice was harsh and she raised up on her knees, her hands going to either side of his neck and pulling him down. “Fuck, I just need you to… shit, you have to…” It hurt to swallow past the thickness in her throat, her inability to be anything other than demanding. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Alistair.” 

When she said his name she heard him suck in a breath and there was no resistance this time when she tried to pull herself closer. Her mouth pressed against his, begging for… something. Something to fill the empty spot in her. He resisted the panicked desperation of her kiss and instead pressed against her lips gently, his hands still holding her face. The tenderness with which his thumb brushed her cheek made her whimper and he met her parted lips with his tongue. She was lost. It was a long, lingering exploration of her mouth, his lips and tongue ferreting out her secrets and swallowing them. 

When they parted he was looking down at her, eyes cautious but searching. “I’m here.” He kissed her softly on the lips and then the jaw. “If you are. Are you here with me, Caralyn?” 

“I want to be.” And she did. She felt like the whole fucking city of Kirkwall could slide into the ocean if she could be here and not feel so vacant, so hollow.

The rough burn of his stubble against her neck was welcome and she tilted her head back as he pressed his face against her throat. “Was that an answer? It didn’t sound like an answer.” His tongue burned as he drew a line up to her earlobe and then bit it softly. She could feel her nipples tighten with the sensation. “Did you come here to get fucked so hard you can’t think about who you really want? Or are you here with me?” 

She jerked back, pulling her hands away from where they rested on his shoulders. He looked at her with a wariness that made her want to snarl at him. “You’re asking me that, you asshole? I’m not the one calling you by another name!.” She shoved him as she stood up, but he caught her wrist before she walked away. She had come to him to taste him, let him take her and make her forget scores of dead bodies in Lowtown, Fenris, the Qunari, her family. 

“You’re right. That wasn’t really fair. I just don’t… I don’t want to do that anymore.” He drew her closer and she let herself be pulled toward him, and then down onto his lap. She could feel his hard length twitch against her hip as she settled closer, smirking at him. “Well, I want to do, umm, that.” One arm was around her waist, hand settled on the outer curve of her hip, while his other hand traveled up her ribs to her breast, pressing his palm against the underside. “But with you, and you with me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes?” His thumb found her nipple through the stiff cloth of the bodice of her robe and ran back and forth over it. His smile was lopsided, loose from drink, but also almost shy. 

“Yes! Maker’s cock! Yes, okay, yes. I came here to find you, didn’t I? I’ve been dreaming about murdered children for days, and I could have drunk myself blind and found some other meathead to stuff me in the alley until I screamed, but I wanted to see you. You are…” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. “You seem nice. Your lips make my mouth water. And the size of your--” He cut her off with his mouth, tongue twisting against hers and he shifted until she pressed back against the bed. She was breathless when he pulled away.

“You’ll make me blush.” He was blushing. She could see it. 

She ran her fingers through the hair at his nape and then down to press her hand against his chest. She shifted her hips, rubbing against his pinning leg while her fingers started pulling at the tie that closed the neck of his lawn shirt. He held himself still over her, his gaze moving from one of her eyes to the other, then leaned down to nip her lower lip, sucking it gently, before running his tongue along the inner edge of the upper. His eyes, golden brown dominating the green, held hers the entire time. When he leaned up a bit she tried to chase his mouth, but he held her down with a hand on her shoulder. 

“Stay.” After a moment he sat up and pulled her with him. 

Stay? She tilted her head and frowned. “I’m here. I thought that was sorted.” She rubbed at her right eye with the heel of her hand and then blinked slowly at him. 

“Well yes, but that doesn’t mean you’ll stay here.” He shifted behind her so that he could reach the buttons on the back of her robe and started unfastening them while his lips trailed over the curve of her neck and the edge of her ear. 

The warmth of his breath and his hands were making her head spin harder than the wine or the rum from earlier. She let her eyes close and her head drop forward as he pulled the ribbon from her messy braid and combed his fingers through her hair to scatter it over her shoulders. “Mmm.” 

Alistair pushed the robe off her shoulders and pulled her further up the bed until she was resting against the pillows. “Say you’ll stay.” His lips closed over a nipple that peaked against the linen of her shift, and when he pulled away the cloth was damp and cold against her skin. 

Hawke studied Alistair’s face as he ran his hand over her cheek, and then combed into her hair. What was he asking her? To stay the night? To stay with him in some abstract sense? She came here to feel real, to hide from her life, and as soon as he asked her to stay she felt like running. When he leaned back down to take her mouth again, his hand cupping her neck and tilting her head further, she shivered and opened to him. She let his tongue delve against hers, his teeth gently grazing her lips occasionally. When he broke, his smile was full of warmth and worry, so vulnerable and painfully kind. She didn’t know what to do with fucking kindness. 

“Why does it matter?” She felt disgruntled at how softly the words came out. She’d meant them to be terse, prodding, but instead they were languorous, breathless. The frown that she’d summoned faded with a gasp as his fingers trailed up her legs, pulling the shift with them, and rubbed against the wet front of her smallclothes. When he looked at her with an arched eyebrow and his hands went still she sighed explosively. “Fine, yes, I’ll stay, for fuck’s sake.” 

The answering chuckle was throaty as his lips covered hers again. 

It was neither sloppy nor impersonal. His hands were everywhere, pulling her shift up over her head, guiding her smallclothes down over her hips. At some point she’d lost her shoes, but she couldn’t remember exactly when. He was over her, his mouth full of her breast, sucking and licking and pressing his face into the firm flesh. She scraped her nails over his shoulder blades, beneath his shirt and fuck he was still dressed. 

The light in his eyes when he sat back on his heels, looking down at her spread beneath him made Hawke squirm. It was heated, devouring. She was unprepared for how naked she would feel now that he could see all of her, and her skin stung like she’d taken too much sun. She shifted her eyes away and then turned her head. He lowered himself to stretch against her side, one of his legs across hers, still clothed in his worn trousers. His mouth was on her ear as his fingers pressed against her clit. “Do you know what I thought when I saw you on that bluff, just before that elf ran me through?” 

The words called a memory that she did not want, and she stiffened. It was not the image of Fenris that bothered her, and that should bother her, shouldn’t it? The elf she thought she loved called to mind while Alistair stripped her and flayed her? She’d had more of him now than she’d had of Fenris, far more, and he was so tender. Her flesh softened against his stroking fingers and she let out a gasp. 

But his question… The image that bothered her, that made her flinch from it, was the sword in his stomach, the gush of blood that accompanied its removal. One of her hands balled in the shoulder of his shirt, the other clutched the back of his neck. He grinned against her skin and his thumb rolled her clit while two of his hard, thick fingers thrust into her without warning. 

The noise she made was between a groan and a scream. The burn of his calluses scraping at the slick, soft skin drove any thoughts from her mind except for the heat and the weight of him above her. The fingers slowly thrust in and out, curling to pull her further along toward him, her body arching. Her hips rose to meet his hand, riding it as he breathed against her hair, inhaling her scent. He scraped his teeth along her throat. “Do you know what I realized?” 

Hawke shook her head, tiny spasms of lateral movement, eyes clenching shut. He was all over her, nothing existed except the movement of his fingers, the warmth of his lips, and the rich laughter that limned the edge of his words, like his mouth knew what joy tasted like. 

The bite of his teeth on her ear dragged another soft cry from her and he hummed as he sucked away the sting. The sound of his voice coiled inside her, a molten weight in her abdomen. “I knew I was the stupidest man in Thedas for not knowing your name. What if I never got to call it?” A third finger enters her, stretching her and making her wail. “Are you ready, Caralyn?” The wet slide of his fingers in her, combined with the rough nudging at her clit make her sob against his shoulder and nod. “Well, come along then, my dear.” 

The climax he drove her to was crushing, her legs twisting closed around his hand, three of his fingers driving into her without pause, his mouth finding hers. The scent of rum and leather and smoke filled her nostrils as she drank him, sucking on his tongue and writhing. When she broke for air she whimpered his name against his neck and he let the length of his muscled body rest on her, his arms gathering her and crushing her close. 

“Say it again.” 

“Alistair.” She swallowed against a hitching in her chest and burrowed closer. 

“Again.” 

She laughed softly then, as his face settled closer into her hair and he huffed a breath of annoyance. “Alistair.” He rolled to the side and pulled her with him, keeping her tucked against his body. She could feel his erection through the pants he still wore, but when she stirred to try to reach for it he held her close and she stilled. 

With her head pillowed on his arm, and his hand toying with the ends of her hair, she shifted so she could see his face. He was smiling at her, looking rather pleased with himself. His other hand traced along her lower back, her ass, her hips. “Do you not want to fuck me?” 

The soft cough of a laugh accompanied a faint blush. “Yeeesss. But, let me have this, for now.” He kissed her brow and she relaxed into him slowly. 

She needed his fingers, his tongue, his cock and he just wanted to hold her and smell her hair? She rubbed her face against his chest as she shook her head, annoyed at how easily she nestled into his heat. “I’m going to fall asleep,” she grumbled. 

“I know.” He sounded pleased.

So she did. She fell asleep with his warm breathing against her scalp and the solid slab of his body an anchor. The dreams she had included no dead mothers asking why she hadn’t saved the babies. They were dreams about honey and summer sun and the fields of wheat around Lothering.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke is an insufferable bitch and a bit of a basket case, Alistair may someday be a puppy nobody kicks, and Anders talks sense until Justice gets crabby. 
> 
> Lots of talking and then a dab of plot.

When Hawke woke it was because someone’s fingers were running through her hair. Her throat was sore, dry and scratchy. She had headache number two, pure hangover throbbing above and behind her left eye. She had probably been fucking snoring. Not that she could be arsed to care if that bothered her bedmate. 

Bedmate. Oh. She’d slept in his bed. All night. Fuck a barrel of fucks.

She swallowed past the dead nug in her mouth and coughed softly. When his chuckle rumbled against her shoulder, and those fingers ran through her hair again, she almost felt like weeping. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Last night when she’d relented in his demand for her to stay and then dropped off she was supposed to be up with the sun and out of there while he was still drooling on his pillow. She’d just been so blighted tired.

One eye opened to see Alistair watching her, head pillowed on his own folded arm. He was smiling like an idiot. A beautiful, void-taken idiot. Maker help her. 

She made a disgruntled noise. “You shouldn’t fucking look so shit pleased with yourself. It isn’t like you put it in last night.” 

The chuckle bloomed into a chortle. “You are such a poet. Do you perform at any local salons? Do any bards put your mellifluous words to music?” 

The pleasant teasing in his voice made her insides clench and her jaw ached as her teeth ground together before she responded. “Murder. Death. Lots of screaming.” His arm was draped across her midsection and bent at the elbow so his hand could card her hair. She shoved it off and sat up. “I am going to kill. You. Pirate. So much blood.” She coughed again, muffling it against her fist. 

“I am not a pirate.” He let her move his arm easily and rolled onto his back, hands behind his head, watching her with a gilt smirk playing at his mouth. 

“The pirate brought the rum. Didn’t play nice with the wine. She has to die.” She scrubbed her hands over her face and looked down. Naked. Still fucking naked, and him? He was wearing the same bloody clothes, half-laced linen trousers and a loose shirt. “What time is it?” 

“Midday, I think.” He shrugged his shoulders and pretended he wasn’t looking at her tits. Why was he pretending with his suddenly averted eyes and the pink tinge to his ears? He had laid her bare and if he was man enough for that he should just fucking look. She glared balefully at him. “Every time I think I’ve seen your angry face, you just get angrier.” His smile was… fond. It was fucking fond. 

Hawke tightened the glare and then rolled off the bed. “I think that time you smote me I was angrier. Or maybe when Meeran broke my nose while you watched. I was pretty fucking angry then.” She began rooting around on the floor for her clothing. 

“Smited.” He pushed up onto his elbows to watch her even though he wouldn’t commit to watching her. Surreptitious shit. 

“I will fucking end you.” She shook her fist at him before realizing she was holding a wadded handful of her own smallclothes, and she flushed as he grinned at her. This was what she got letting him see her completely naked. No more fear, no more respect. Just sly grins and sidelong leering from here on out. “I have at least three spells ready that will explode your eyeballs right in your head. And your actual balls right in your pants. Just try me.” 

“You are ador--” His words stopped, choked around the mouthful of silk as she stuffed her smalls into his mouth. 

“Do you want to die this way?” She was a little astonished at her own conviction as she said those words. The hand that held her smalls against his mouth trembled slightly and his eyes widened, the warmth in them growing sad as he looked up at her. She quirked her eyebrow and leaned closer, her whole posture demanding an answer. He finally shook his head and she sighed, releasing him. 

The handful of silk dropped to the floor as she stood again, and grabbed her robe. As she shimmied it over her head and began buttoning it she listened to him sit up and sigh. 

“So you’re going then?” 

“My mother will wonder why I didn’t come home.” It was a pathetic answer, and she knew it. She had just threatened him with death and implied dismemberment. 

“Your mother?” The expression he wore when she glanced over her shoulder at him was comical in its incredulity. 

“Yes, my mother. My fucking mother. I know you’re an orphan, but I’m all she has left since Carver’s off licking Meredith Stannard’s boots and… Fuck! Why am I talking to you?” She stuffed her feet into her shoes and started for the door. She was brought up when he stepped in front of her. He was too fast! How did he bloody do that?

His hands settled on her shoulders and he looked down at her with concern that made her want to bite him until he bled. Nose, neck, big toe? Whatever. It was that fucking kindness again. The kindness that she had no use for, had no idea what to do with. “Are you okay? I’m sorry if I…” He trailed off, tilting his head slightly to the left, brow crinkling with worry. 

She snorted. “I’m fine. You didn’t do anything. Except for make me cream all over your hand, and thanks for that. Cheaper than the Rose, but with a deft touch, good fingers. If you ever decide to give up failing as a bodyguard I’ll give you a reference..” She reached up and patted his cheek. “Keep the rum, love. You earned it.” 

He stared at her, the incredulity deepening. He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, while his hazel eyes seemed sadder, his gaze turning cool and inward. “Well that is… something.” His hands fell to his sides and she bolted to the door. She didn’t look back when it slammed behind her. 

The dusty midday swelter of Lowtown was a blur as Hawke hurried through it. She was at the door of Anders’ clinic before she realized she wasn’t going home yet. Her mother would be out of the house soon to visit Gamlen and Hawke could slink in and get cleaned up while she was gone. First she just needed to… something. 

Maker, she had been truly awful to Alistair. She rubbed a hand over her face and then pushed open the door, trying to convince herself the twist in her gut was just nausea from the rum and the wine. It had nothing to do with finding a little peace in his arms and then effectively spitting in his eye this morning in her hurry to get away.

There were no patients waiting to see Anders, the warmth of early summer a brief respite between waves of cold weather ague and the later festering swell of cholera and bloody flux. Kirkwall was just a pit of misery except for these few short weeks between seasons. It probably made Hawke incredibly selfish that she was just happy no one needed the Darktown healer so she didn’t have an audience when he laughed at her. 

There would be laughing. She had no illusions about that. 

Anders sat at his makeshift desk measuring a powder from a jar onto a scale and then into individual paper twists. He glanced up when he heard her footsteps and one of his eyebrows lifted as he looked her up and down. “Rough night, love?” His smirk managed to be both disapproving and amused, while still saving room for an eyeroll when she scowled at him. 

“I blame Isabela.” 

“You do tend to do that whenever the drinking gets away from you. But to hear her tell it, she wasn’t even witness to your overindulgence.” He tutted as he stood up and found her a cup and a pitcher of water from the potable cistern. “Though she did have a few things to say. She found you to be more of a screamer than she expected, but she was disappointed at the brevity of the goings-on.” 

Hawke frowned at the cup of water in her hand and then drank it slowly. “I should have expected that, I guess. She was listening?” She should have said it with fierce bluster. She normally would have poured contempt into her response. Isabela and her fucking mouth. But the bluster failed in the face of honest awkwardness. At least the pirate hadn’t heard Hawke this morning when she was busy being an insufferable bitch. 

“Well, it is Isabela.” 

The cot that Hawke plunked down on creaked a little alarmingly but held and after a moment of frowning silence she rolled her shoulders and sighed. “I wasn’t even going to see him but she knocked on the door and ran, leaving me standing there looking like a fool.” 

“Alistair, then?” Anders’ tone was even, though his eyes held a certain reserve that made Hawke feel a prickle of irritation. 

“You know I’m a screamer, but she didn’t mention who I was screaming with?” She snorted at the thought of any sort of discretion offered by the pirate. Her knuckles were white where her hands clenched around her cup. 

Anders leaned against the work table across from her, arms folded. He was watching her with a puzzled inquiry, and she didn’t blame him, because even she knew she didn’t sound like herself. “Well, I’m sure she wanted to have something to hold over you, or drop at the wrong moment when it was most embarrassing.” His amber eyes darkened with concern as he shifted his weight a little. “Are you okay, Cara?” 

“Yes, Maker, why does everybody keep asking me that?” Because she wasn’t. She sighed and set the cup down before flopping onto her side on the cot. “Can we just skip to more teasing and the finger wagging.” 

“What am I going to wag my finger at you for exactly?” 

“I don’t know!” Anders’ eyes widened at the sudden crack of her shout. “I don’t fucking know!” 

She rolled onto her back and he walked toward her. “Budge up.” He nudged her feet and she lifted them so he could sit. Once her lower legs were settled onto his lap he sighed. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m thrilled you’re sleeping with a former Warden or Templar or whatever.” 

She snorted again and gave him a flat, disgruntled look. “You’re a former Warden.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, but we aren’t involved like that.” 

“As if fucking you would be the one step too far and that ruins my life.” She scowled fondly at him and reached out to thump his arm with her knuckles. 

He smiled sidelong at her before catching her hand in his and intertwining their fingers. “Might ruin you for other men.” He twitched his eyebrow at her. 

She burst out laughing. “Idiot.” Hawke squeezed his hand tightly and Anders grinned at her. The first time she’d met him she’d smelled the Fade on him strong and sharp, a tall, ratty bundle of power and pathos, and she had hated him immediately. _Don’t threaten me, little girl,_ indeed. By the end of the week he was family. He had wept, and she had held him, after Karl’s death and she’d sworn they would find a way to make the Templars of Kirkwall pay. He teased her out of her black moods and she listened when he ranted and if Hawke had believed in soulmates she thought Anders was probably hers, in a completely non-sexy and abundantly fraternal sort of way. There had been a moment in the Deep Roads where a clumsy pass and fumble had proved that their future together wasn’t one that involved naked touching. “Wouldn’t that be easier though? Andraste’s virgin asshole, I just want things to be easier.” 

“So why don’t you let them be? Not with me, obviously, but you can make things a bit fraught sometimes.” His smile was wry as she glared at him. “Only a bit!” 

“Shut up.” She did though, and she closed her eyes with a weary sigh, trying to will away the flush of shame that was creeping up in her cheeks. 

“I’m assuming that you dragged yourself through Darktown with uncombed hair and stubble burn on your neck because things went so very well this morning?” His tone was needling now, not cross or unkind, but prodding. She hated that tone. 

“Anders, shut up.” Her flush grew stronger and she lifted her head to give him the look that said he was rapidly approaching the line. 

“I’m curious about how your morning did go, though. Breakfast in bed? Spooning? A lazy wake up tussle?” When she jerked her hand away his eyes narrowed just a hint. It was the same face he wore when he pestered Fenris about the elf’s anti-mage sentiments. It was a little mean, that face, and in those moments Hawke had a very clear picture of just how tiring his trips back to the Circle must have been for the Templars that recaptured him. “No?” he continued. “Did you run out on him while he was still asleep?” 

“Anders, I said shut the fuck up!” She was appalled to hear her voice quaver when it should have roared. 

“Or maybe you politely and awkwardly thanked him for a nice night, but pretended to get his name wrong?” He watched her with the smallest glint of cruel humor in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let this go, apparently. 

“I hate you! I really fucking hate you!” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I pretty much called him a whore that I didn’t have to pay, but tipped him with half a bottle of Isabela’s terrible grog.” She coughed out a tiny sob of a laugh. She was a miserable human being. 

“Maker, Cara. That… that is definitely not letting things be easy.” He squeezed her lower leg lightly and his voice shifted to sympathetic. “You must actually like him.” 

“I still hate you! I can’t even… what did I come down here for?” Her voice was shrill as she pulled her legs off his lap and sat up. When she tried to stand he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and held her still. 

“Nope. Not running away, Hawke. You’re going to sit here and tell me about what happened between you and Fenris.” 

“Oh, Maker, no. No fucking way, Anders! We weren’t talking about him! We will never talk about him!” She jabbed her finger into his bony chest and felt a sudden pang at how thin he was. She hated him and wanted, at this moment, to kill him but she was definitely making him move upstairs with her. And she was going to… she couldn’t think of an appropriate threat for Justice that wouldn’t involve just punching Anders. 

“You don’t think these things have something to do with one another? I’m the author of several treatises on the art of running away, love. You are running from something that has to do with the elf and you’re making yourself feel like a terrible person to avoid it. So talk.” His voice had gone warm again, and the barbs in his expression had withdrawn. 

She shook her head in a slow back and forth wag and then let it hang. “The night after he killed Hadriana, Fenris and I…” She cringed, hunching her shoulders under Anders’ arm. “We, Maker, we made a mistake.” 

“A mistake?” His hand smoothed her hair, and she flinched away from it, remembering too vividly Alistair’s hand waking her with its gentle combing barely an hour ago. 

“That’s what he called it.” She was pathetic. She hated feeling this well of helplessness. She was Caralyn Hawke. She took what she wanted and electrocuted the truly stupid who stood in her way. And she was pathetic. “I woke up and he was standing there, dressed, and said that it was fine. It wasn’t me, it was him. He remembered things about his past, and then they went away and I guess that was my fucking fault. But he had that look, the rabbity one he gets sometimes around magic and when he looked me in the eye and told me it was a mistake… Fuck him. _Fuck_ him.” 

“Cara, you know I love you, and you know how I feel about Fenris. But, really, what did you expect? He hates us. He hates everything we are. He’s a bigot who isn’t smart enough to see what’s in front of his face.” Anders spoke around a mouthful of bitterness and like always he wasn’t willing to recognize what he and Fenris had in common. If Fenris could actually see reason about the Circle they might have been friends, but no. Mages were dangerous and tainted and… She tightened her hands into fists. 

“I expected him to have some kind of attachment to the woman he’s followed around for four fucking years that he just put his dick in. ‘Sure, I’ll fuck her, but I won’t soil myself by liking her.’” She really had thought they were beyond him hating her because of her magic. Even after he’d left her, she hadn’t thought he hated her, until he’d called her mage instead of her name in that voice that made it an insult. 

“Hmm. And when you ran away from the strapping man you spent last night with?”

“No, no. Nope. Fuck you. That is not the same. He’s some asshole I met in the Hanged Man who pushed me up against a wall in the alley one night when Diamondback broke up early. I loved Fenris. This guy didn’t even know my name until that whole bullshit thing with Tintop.” The image of the dead children, gutted and trussed flashed in her mind again and she did have to stifle a sob that time. 

Anders snugged her more tightly against his side and pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re allowed to feel things. Really.” 

Why was he being so patient and so right? He had been in Lowtown the night of the saar-qamek, had seen the same things, and he wasn’t a raving basketcase. No more than usual, anyway. 

“You can even feel things besides pissed off and ‘I’ll kill you and eat you’. This has been a terrible week, on top of the usual mess that is Kirkwall, and you deserve way more than Fenris gave you. You’re right about the ‘fuck him’ part.” This time when he reached over to pet her hair she didn’t flinch from it. 

Tears were sliding down her cheeks and she turned into the other mage’s chest, burying her face in his shoulder. His arms held her gently, and he rested his chin on the top of her head while she cried. She never did this. She was stronger than this. She always had been, for her family after her father died, for her mother and Carver after Bethany was killed, for just her mum when Carver abandoned them. She let one more shuddering sob out and then took a deep, slow breath. “Okay. I’m done. I’m done.” 

The grip around her shoulders loosened and she leaned away from him, rubbing at her cheeks while he watched her with a soft, sad smile. “Now what?” he asked as he tucked her hair behind her ear, eyebrows lifted. 

That was a real bitch of a question. What did she want? Anders said she was allowed to feel things, that she probably actually liked Alistair, and that she needed to let her fixation on Fenris go. Like it was so fucking easy. But really, he was right. Leaving aside the guilt for all the death the Qunari poison had caused, maybe she could deal with the wretched shame she had been feeling ever since Alistair’s door slammed behind her. 

“I figure out if I can apologize to Alistair without getting smote again. Smited. Whatever.” She winced as she felt the tingle of energy, Fadeborn, sharp and wild, that always indicated Justice had taken a more particular interest. Oh. Shit. 

“Again?” Anders held her upper arms tightly, pushing her away to arms length and staring at her with blue flickering in his gaze. His fingers bit into her shoulders, but she held very still as the uncanny timbre of his voice made the hair on her arms stand up. “He attacked you. He’s one of them, and you still let him touch you?” Anders was almost entirely gone by the end of the sentence, replaced by Justice’s implacable, callous moralizing.

“Shit. It’s okay. Calm down.” She put a hand on his cheek and looked at him steadily, and spoke as gently as she could. Varric would be so proud. “I told you about him taking me from the Tart that night, remember? Meeran wanted me dead, and Alistair helped by making it look that way. That’s why, yes? He wasn’t trying to hurt a mage. He knew what I was and he helped.” She felt like she was strangling on her own anxiety as she watched the blue slowly recede. One of these days Anders wouldn’t come back from Justice’s terrible wrath, and if something she did was the cause she would… she didn’t know what. Just another reason to sleep badly and wish for a heart made of stone. When the warm honeyed eyes were clear and real again she lowered her hand. “Back with me?” 

Anders nodded tersely and then pulled her back to him for a brief, hard hug. “Back,” he whispered. “If you do apologize and he does smite you, maybe don’t tell me about it unless you want his entrails to become extrails?” She barked a laugh and shook her head. 

“Idiot.” 

“You’re the one playing naughty mage and upstanding knight in the alley behind the Hanged Man. I’m not going to take any more guff from you.” He dodged her elbow and stood up, pulling her to her feet with him. “Really, though, Cara, you should let Fenris go. Let it be easier. If that means you take up with this exiled Warden or Isabela, or void, even Varric, just let yourself be happy. Happier. Happy-ish?” He chucked her gently under the chin. 

“Fine. Yes, okay. You’re the fucking expert about not making things complicated and being ever so happy-ish, right?” She smiled brightly at him, showing too many teeth and he met her eyes with a bland expression. “Let’s go upstairs and have baths and food like actual people, and then we can talk about _your_ plans for happy-ish-ness.” 

He tried to protest but she marched him out of the clinic with both of her hands threatening to tear all the feathers out of his pauldrons, making him extinguish the lantern on the way by. Once they got to the hidden entrance to her cellars he stopped struggling and just sighed at her, exasperation and warmth in equal measure. He rolled his eyes when she pointed imperiously at the ladder and she scowled back, because that’s what she did. They climbed through the secret passage in silence. 

When they entered the kitchen she could hear the sound of raised voices coming from the entry hall. She sighed and waved vaguely at the larder. “Help yourself, I’ll see if the Grand Cleric’s skirt is on fire, or whatever fucking crisis it is now. I hope it is Elthina’s skirt. We can refuse to piss on her to put it out.” He wrinkled his nose and followed after her anyway. 

In the entry hall Gamlen was standing over Sandal, glowering down at the serene smile of the young dwarf. Sandal’s diction was hopeful. “Enchantment?” 

Her uncle’s expression was one of such perfect frustration that any other time Hawke would have given Sandal a whole custard tart as a reward, but when she heard him speak she felt cold. “No, Leandra. Lee. Ann. Drah.” Her mother was supposed to be visiting with Gamlen today.

Hawke stepped closer to them. “What’s the matter, uncle?” Her voice dropped off as her eyes passed over the accent table behind him. She wasn’t listening when he answered. She couldn’t hear Anders call her name as lightning skittered around her hands unbidden. She was staring at the spray of lilies, all white, in the vase on the table by the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though really, Hawke is the kicked puppy by the end here. Poor cranky thing.
> 
> Edited to umm edit: I pulled a threat from Hawke's little tirade after Alistair tried to call her adorable and subsequent inner monologue reference. Originally read "Do you want to die this way? Because I know of at least two people who live in this fucking building who will help me butcher, cook, and eat your corpse if you finish that sentence." Decided I couldn't live with cannibalism becoming a recurring theme. 
> 
> This is maybe why people have betas. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter section. Different tone. I hope it works.

They were all there when Hawke finally made it back to the Hanged Man. No one had any light in their eyes that spoke of her mother’s safe recovery. It had been hours, and she walked every street in Hightown, every bottleneck and dead end in Darktown, with Anders pacing at her side. Varric and Aveline organized canvasses of the docks and Lowtown. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for anymore. The sun went down, but she couldn’t still, couldn’t stop, and for once she didn’t speak. 

She had gotten it wrong. She had gotten it so very, very wrong. Gascard de Puis was dead and the Kirkwall ripper had her mother. She must have made some kind of noise, low in her throat because Anders touched her shoulder and stepped closer. He hadn’t left her side since she’d found the lilies. She had stopped talking to him the third time he suggested she return home for something to eat while the others worked their leads, but he stayed and he was always within an arms length of her. 

Her eyes skipped around the faces of her friends, saw the same answer in all their eyes, and she turned back to the door. She had blisters from her town shoes, something she hadn’t worried about since early goings of hiking to Sundermount, when she’d truly learned the lesson of a good pair of boots. She hadn’t stopped walking for eight hours, a faster, more punishing pace on the pavers and cobblestones than she ever trekked the Wounded Coast at.

“Hawke.” She ignored Anders’ pained entreaty and jerked open the door just as Alistair pushed through it. 

The broad hands caught her before she collided with his chest and a hooded, incomplete smile broke on his mouth. “Well, this isn’t awkward at all…” He trailed off and she shrugged his hands away and tried to step by him. 

“Caralyn, wait. Maker, what’s happened?” She must look a right sight if he went from prickling dismissal to that concerned so instantly. 

She raised a hand and flexed her magic, using a wave of force to push him back against the wall without a thought. It was not punishing or bruising. Just emphatic. Clinical. She didn’t have time for any more of these words, or explanations, or worried, empty consolations. She stalked back out into the street, leaving Anders behind. She could hear him talking in a harsh, hushed burst, before the jangling of his coat’s absurd buckles signalled he’d returned to his spot at her elbow. 

He grabbed her arm and dragged her to a halt and thrust a waterskin into her other hand. “Drink this and we’ll go. But you have to drink this, or I’m going to put you to sleep. Maker knows why you haven’t collapsed from dehydration or heat exhaustion already.” The day had been punishingly hot, the last of spring’s gentle temperance gone. 

For a moment Hawke considered shoving him away from her like she had Alistair, but she couldn’t lose Anders now. What if her mother lay bleeding and he could save her? If they found her already dead who else would save Hawke? She took the skin and drank until she felt like her stomach would rupture, then threw it back at him. She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she knew he was searching her face for something. She turned to make another circuit of Lowtown in the thickening dusk. 

She was a block away from the tavern when she heard Gamlen’s voice. She broke into a run immediately. In the near-dark Gamlen was holding a guttersnipe by the scruff of his neck, shaking him and demanding he talk. Hawke’s hands shook. The effort to keep herself from strangling the filthy child when he demanded coin for information that could save her mother’s _life_ was truly heroic. Anders must have seen the glint of murder in her eyes. He pressed a coin into the boy’s hand before they were pointed at the blood spatters on the ground. How had Aveline’s canvass missed this? 

It was a trail. It was hours old, dried blotches and drips, worn away by the feet of passersby. But it was a trail. 

Hawke began tracing it as quickly as she could, and it was with mild surprise she realized the others were clustered around her before she had gone too many blocks. Merrill’s fluting voice could be heard chattering optimistically as they moved deeper toward the docks. Isabela came and went along the path, oozing in and out of the shadows silently. Varric stumped along at Hawke’s other elbow, pointing out the next splotch of blood before Hawke could see it. Even Fenris, all shadows and silver, padded along with them. 

The greatest surprise was when Hawke cast a glance back to see who Aveline was talking to, More than one heavy, booted step rang behind the group, and at the Guard Captain’s side was Alistair in his battered armor with a sword and shield on his back. 

She reached out and closed her hand around Anders’ wrist. “What is he doing here?” Her voice was practically a pant, ragged with the pace she set, only constrained from a dead run by the rate of detection of Varric’s eyes. 

“He wanted to help.” The taller mage glanced down at her. Even in her current state Hawke could recognize it as his healer’s face, gentle and attentive. Trustworthy. “Whatever else he is, he cares.” Anders twisted his hand, shifting her fingers from his wrist and clasping them tightly. “We all care, Hawke.” Hearing him use her surname made her feel competent, as if this were just another job. She could handle that. She squeezed his hand briefly and then let it drop. She was the picture of determination. 

They all cared. Her eyes flicked to Fenris. Maybe. She shook her head. There would be no time for that. Worrying about him or Alistair’s presence was the height of stupidity. 

There wasn’t enough light to see by. Her ears felt stuffed with wool. The whole group’s movements hinged on her certainty she had to keep moving, a street rat’s blather, and Varric’s admittedly superior eyesight. She hoped that was enough. 

Her world was small and simple. It had collapsed to a trail of blood.

The trail of blood led to the foundry door. 

The foundry door led to the hidden ladder. 

The hidden ladder led to a blood mage’s shrine, library, and eventually his kill floor. 

When the others stopped before the painting in the odd free-floating living area Hawke passed them like a ghost. Anders was gesticulating angrily at some book or another, unable to keep himself from scolding Merrill while Fenris snarled about irony. Varric and Aveline discussed the portrait’s resemblance to Leandra, with Isabela tapping her foot at them. Hawke just walked right past and nobody seemed to notice. 

They’d given up. When they reached the foundry where Ninette de Carrac’s ring and the assorted bones had been found, she could feel the urgency leach out of the group. It was understandable, Hawke supposed. This was where they found parts of women. Dead things. There was no precedent for saving victims and they knew it. Herself, she was tugged along on an invisible string. Her mother was down here, and she wasn’t leaving until they found her. Or what was left of her. 

When she rounded the corner into the next chamber the stench of rotting meat became overpowering. At the far end of the room several lanterns were lit around a table with a high-backed chair facing away from her. Opposite the chair was an older man, gaunt, spattered with blood and darker fluids, and he rose as she strode closer. 

“Young Lady Hawke! You have arrived. She was so certain you’d come for her.” It was an unctuous voice, threaded with a shrill mania that should have made Hawke recoil. Instead she simply looked at him. He was a dead man. That was easy enough to see. But where was her mother? 

“Hawke!” She wasn’t sure which of her companions shouted her name, but that wasn’t important as a white-veiled figure rose from the wing-backed chair and turned. The world stopped. There was shouting and explosions and blood. Demons and shades. More blood. But Hawke simply looked into the face of her mother residing on the patchwork body before her. 

The battle raged and resolved without her.

_It would be easy, Caralyn Hawke. An easy “yes” and she will be whole. An easy “yes” and no one would be able to hurt anyone you love. Yes, Caralyn Hawke. Say yes and there will be no more hurting, ever._

The Veil was perilously thin in the foundry basement and Hawke didn’t need to be in the Fade to hear the offer of the pride demon in those final seconds of the fight. She just looked into her mother’s eyes and listened. It was instantaneous and simple. She needed a knife, the blood in her veins, and to say _Yes_.

Merrill had made a deal and she was sane. She wasn’t evil. 

Anders was possessed and he was the best person she knew.

She wouldn’t be a magister but even Fenris wasn’t a factor anymore. She couldn’t let her mother die. She could not. Her father. Bethany. If she had been able to make this choice to save either of them she might have. But now, in this moment it was in her lap, and looking into the clouded, dead eyes of her mother, she could not dither. 

The knife was easily snagged from Merrill’s belt as the last of the demons crumbled to motes of ash and the monster that had summoned them fell dead on the floor. She could hear Anders already apologizing that there was nothing he could do as he caught Leandra’s crumpling body, but she wasn’t listening to anything but the voice in her head that said, _Your eyes for my strength, Caralyn Hawke, do you agree?_ and the knife descending toward her own arm was the answer. 

The pain was rather different than she expected. The agony in her innermost self, that seemed about right. She was sundering her soul after all. But the explosion in her whole body, shards of glass and her flesh screaming? That ended with her stomach on the floor a second before her skull connected with it. Then silence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke goes away a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter section with a different structure. Concrit on Merrill's POV welcome. :)

The dirt over the undressed stone that makes up the uneven floor of the basement tastes like iron and blood and coal. There is screaming, unholy screaming, and the scent of the Fade. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear those things, and taste them. Then they go away again.

* * *

Cool, dry hands brush hair back from her forehead. “Oh, lethallan, don’t worry about it anymore. We have you. It is so sad, isn’t it? But we have you.” She can smell the wet, green scent of fresh willowbark, and mud, and copper. The back of her head is warm, though she cannot feel the rest of her body beyond a dull buzzing. It hurts hardest somewhere in the center. Slowly it goes away again.

* * *

There are two voices and they are angry. So angry. 

“I am to leave her in the care of an abomination and a blood mage? Your influence is already more than manifest.” 

“Would you like us to leave her with you, so you can murder her in her sleep? We don’t know if she’s possessed. Alistair interrupted her before she could even cut herself!” 

“If she made this choice once, what is to stop her from making it again? She can no longer be trusted!”

“Like you ever trusted her?”

“That is none of your concern, abomination.” 

“You bigoted hypocrite. You remember Feynriel? Justice was there in the Fade when you betrayed her to take that demon’s deal to have power over your master. This was her mother, Fenris. I know you don’t remember having one of those so that would mean nothing to you.” 

“You go too far, mage, and presume that one excuse for grasping at a demon’s power is better than another. But they are all just excuses! Excuses for weakness!”

“You certainly enjoy pointing the finger at any weakness other than your own.” 

Silence, broken silence laced with obstinance and fury, falls. She goes away.

* * *

*   
Careful hands wash her hair in a basin, while a voice warm and rich as brandy sings. 

_Down by the salley gardens  
My love and I did meet;  
She passed the salley gardens  
With little snow-white feet.  
She bid me take love easy,  
As the leaves grow on the tree;  
But I, being young and foolish  
with her did not agree.  
In a field by the river  
My love and I did stand  
And on my leaning shoulder  
She laid her snow-white hand.  
She bid me take life easy,  
As the grass grows on the weirs;  
But I was young and foolish  
And now am full of tears._ 1

Water splashes and a damp cloth rubs her face, her neck. Gentle hands and soft arms scented with sandalwood and ambergris pull silk around her. She lets it go away.

* * *

It was easier in the darkness, letting herself skate like a soap bubble on the surface of the black water, insubstantial and impermanent. But that illusion had to burst eventually, and the pain in Hawke’s head when it did was breathtaking. But it really was nothing compared to the pain in her chest. 

The room was filled with filtered light from the windows, the heavy damask drawn back so the light was cast a cool lavender by the gauze panels beneath. She shifted onto her side facing the window and let out a long breath. She was alone in her head, something she’d come to terms with in the waxing and waning consciousness over the past… however long. No passenger hungering through her eyes, and so she failed and Leandra Hawke, Lady Amell, her mother, was dead. 

She took in a long breath, and let it go.

* * *

Creators, what a mess! The shouting had gone on, and on, and ever on. The whole great lot of them arguing round and round about Hawke’s heart, Hawke’s soul, Hawke’s great crime. Merrill thought it was all rather a lot of fuss over a choice Hawke had tried to make, a choice Merrill could appreciate. She had wanted to give of her self, of her blood, to protect her family. It wouldn’t have worked out well, of course, because frankly what was left of her mother was ill-suited to this world, and it would have hurt both their hearts to hold onto it. But it was a choice made from love, wasn’t it? 

And Merrill understood sacrifice and love. 

But the others were blinded by their fear of the Beyond. Even Anders, harboring his own spirit, could not see past his fear that Hawke was now tainted. When Fenris had suggested they’d best put her down before she woke, for Hawke would be too powerful as an abomination, as a blood mage, Merrill had had enough. 

She and Isabela had taken charge of her, cleaned her up, put her to bed, and with Varric’s help had scooted everyone out of the mansion. Even the big man who seemed to be a Templar, but not, for he did not try to arrest Hawke, or kill her, was shooed away. He had stopped her deal with a smite so powerful Merrill’s teeth still hurt to think back on it, and that had nearly gotten him ripped apart by Justice, who nobody but Hawke had ever had success at derailing from self-righteous murder. 

Varric had pointed out it was either a smite or “Hawke the maniac blood mage,” and Justice needed to think hard about that, and that had saved Alistair’s life. So far. Merrill had seen the looks Fenris gave him, and maybe Isabela was right, and he was Hawke’s current lover, because as angry as she had seen Fenris, she had never seen him look so very… feral. 

But everyone was so worried, and it was tearing them apart, so when Anders had returned the next day looking worn and defeated she had suggested that it was a simple test to see if Hawke did harbor a demon. She had done as much in the past to check for demonic taint, and Creators knew she had seen enough of Hawke’s blood over the years to know the difference. So she sat next to her bed with a small sewing needle pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and Anders hovering anxiously behind her. 

“I’m going to prick your finger, Hawke. It will only sting a little so I can smell your blood, lethallan, and Anders will heal you right up. Unless of course you do have a demon in you, and then you’ll probably try to kill us, won’t you?” She reached for Hawke’s hand and glanced up at Anders. “I don’t think that’s very likely, by the way. Please don’t attack Hawke if she blinks or flinches or snores. She’ll be cross if you kill her and she wasn’t an abomination.” 

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose, looking anxious and bedraggled from his messy hair to his feathered pauldrons. “Please, Merrill, just do what you’re going to do.” 

It had taken three explanations of how this was not blood magic, and then a witness statement from Varric that he had seen her do something similar with Keran the Templar recruit years ago, before he agreed. It was rude of him to be so dismissive and judgemental, since she had only suggested it for his sake, because she trusted Hawke not to become an abomination immediately upon waking up. She stabbed the needle into Hawke’s thumb pad just hard enough to break the skin emphatically, and then pinched it to make the blood well. 

When there was enough she smeared it onto her own thumb, rubbed it against her forefinger and then brought both fingers to her nose. The scent was as it ever was, clear and ringing and sharp with power, but without the heady, overripe fruit and hot metal that blood magic or demonic influence added. 

Smiling brightly at Anders she shook her head. “See, Anders, you needn’t have worried. There’s nothing of the First Children in it. I should think you would know the difference too, since you have your own spirit to compare to.” 

“Justice isn’t a demon.” 

It was an argument they’d been having for years now, and Merrill worried that Anders was closer to losing himself to his spirit than she had ever been to hers. Of course, she hadn’t invited her spirit to wander into her head for a chat and a nap like he had, so it was a little different, wasn’t it? Creators, and he thought she was a featherhead. “I know, da’len.” 

He reached down to Hawke’s hand to brush the tiny wound she’d made and gasped. Merrill’s eyes jerked to Hawke and saw her eyes were open, tracking Anders and her, but there was something absent from them. “Cara, are you awake?” he asked.

“I’ll have Orana bring tea and soup, shall I?” Merrill bounced to her feet, knowing that as nice as Hawke had been to her, and as highly as Merrill valued the human’s friendship, she had a bond with Anders she wasn’t party to. So she would go and get tea and food and hope that he could help, and if he couldn’t, she would try. 

“Thank you, Merrill.” Anders settled onto the edge of Hawke’s bed while Merrill hustled out the door and down the stairs. 

She spent a few minutes chattering with Orana in the kitchen, and then checking with Bodhan to see who had come calling since last night. The list included everyone that had been in the foundry basement except for Fenris and Alistair, which Merrill thought was curious. They should have been the most worried, she’d have thought, but the pride of humans in their courting was something she had never been able to understand. 

When she returned to Hawke’s room, Anders was pacing at the foot of her bed. He looked up and halted. “She won’t talk to me.” 

“Perhaps she doesn’t feel like talking yet, Anders.” She went to Hawke’s side and took her hand. “Do you want us to go, lethallan? It’s hard, isn’t it? Everyone thinking you should feel a certain way, wanting to help for their own sake instead of theirs. If you promise to eat and drink what Orana brings you, I’ll take Anders with me, I promise.” 

Merrill watched as something dark and stormy arose in Hawke’s beautiful indigo eyes. They became almost black as tears welled in them, and then they closed and she nodded. “Thank you, Merrill. Tell everyone I’m sorry.” She squeezed Merrill’s hand and then let it slip free before turning to face away from her, huddling down further into the blankets. 

“Oh, Hawke. You don’t have to apologize, but I’ll tell them.” She turned toward Anders who was staring at her with wild eyes, but at least they stayed that pretty light brown, because he was so scary when they shot through with blue, much scarier than she would ever be herself. 

“We can’t leave her. What if she tries to--” His words cut off as he was hit in the side of the head with a pillow. 

“She won’t try anything, you shithead. She wants to sleep. _She_ isn’t going to sell her soul to a demon for _vengeance_. _She_ just wanted to save her mother, but somebody decided that wasn’t noble enough, and that somebody can get the fuck out.” Hawke had sat up to snarl, but as soon as she finished she collapsed back to the bed, ignoring Anders’ stricken stare. 

Merrill took his hand and pulled him gently to the door. “Come on, Anders. We can come back later. Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day. If you need anything at all, Hawke, send someone to Varric and we’ll come running, won’t we?” 

Anders kept glancing back as if he expected Hawke to call for him, but she let them go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Isabela is singing “Down by the Salley Gardens” by W. B. Yeats. She’s a secret sap.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke attempts to grow as a person, Anders is still being the best bro, and Fenris broods and snarls. Typical day.
> 
> Next time, Alistair is back in the picture. Promise!

At first the days tasted like sawdust and the nights were sour like vinegared wine. 

The pride demon hunted Hawke in the Fade, taunting her with what she couldn’t have, and each morning she was more resolved in her rejection, and almost ill with relief that Alistair had stopped her.

She fucking hated that relief. If she could find where that relief lived she would carve it out because it was her mother’s life and she had failed. 

What the demon promised now were shades and figments, lies she would tell herself in the peace of her mind as a passenger while it rode her body. Its other offer had maybe been a different kind of lie, but in the foundry basement her mother had still been in there, and she could have had more time with her. And she had no right to feel _relieved_ that she did not get that time. 

She drank a lot. She could have drank Isabela under the table, if she had let anyone in to see her. 

For days they knocked at the door, spoke with Bodhan, rattled around downstairs and left, one of her friends after the other. There were flowers and notes and one very welcome bottle of Antivan brandy from either Isabela or Varric. But she didn’t know how to look at them, see their pity, and maybe their fear. 

Anders finally let himself in and snuck up the stairs so Bodhan couldn’t protest. He settled with his back against her bedroom door when she wouldn’t unlock it. She endured hours of chatter, his worst dirty jokes, and off-key sea shanties that Isabela had taught him. 

She suspected Orana was a fucking traitor, providing him with tea and water to keep his voice going uninterrupted. 

It was when he started reading his manifesto aloud the third time through that she had jerked the door open so hard he tumbled backwards and smiled sadly up at her. 

“You’re an idiot.” Her hands shook as she remembered her accusations, how she’d thrown him out. She could barely breathe with gratitude that he was here. 

He sat up and peered at her with a furrowed brow. His eyes were worried, and warm, and all of a sudden she realized she wasn’t actually alone. “I’m so sorry, Cara.”

“Shit. I…” Her chest hitched as she bent down for his hands. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back.”

He smiled crookedly at her and huffed a soft laugh as she helped him off the floor. “And yet you made me sit out there for almost four hours.” 

It was impossible to explain so she didn’t try. “You should never, ever sing again.” 

He pouted and she hugged him onto the bed, where he whispered her mother’s last words against her hair. Leandra had wanted given to her Caralyn, and they were love and pride and contentment that her father and Bethany would be with her again. 

She snorted past her tears when he admonished her, at her mother’s behest, to take care of her brother, and they cried and laughed at her mother’s obstinate refusal to ever understand her childrens’ relationship. She fell asleep weeping on his chest because he had held her mother while she died and Hawke had been insensate yards away, but at least he’d been there. She dreamed about what life would have been like if Anders had been her brother instead of Carver. 

It was eight days after her mother died and she finally slept sober with dreams untroubled by demons. 

It wasn’t enough time. It would never be enough, she knew that. But the world, the cesspit of the city, the asshole Viscount and the shitbrained Qunari weren’t going away simply because she did. She just wanted more time. 

After supper on the tenth day she heard the bell in the foyer and frowned. Almost everyone had been through already that day. She’d missed Varric, who had sent a note, Fenris, who she half expected to climb in her window to drag her to the Templars at any moment, and… well. 

She had to catch herself every time she thought about Alistair as included in everyone. When she felt a prickle of hope at each ring of the door bell that he might be announced, she was towed under by crashing waves of guilt. She had been with him the morning her mother received the lilies. She had been impossibly cruel to him that day. She would be a blood mage and demon’s thrall now with a patchwork-flesh-doll for a mother if he hadn’t stopped her. She hated, she fucking hated, how much she wanted to see him. 

The bell caused the same prickle of hope, and when the door downstairs opened Hawke listened intently for a clue who it was. She heard Bodhan’s greeting clearly, and then not much else. 

Maker’s balls, she needed to just get up and go look over the foyer balcony. 

She stood as a shadow entered her doorway, and when Hawke saw who it was she sat down abruptly, staring in consternation. 

“I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” Fenris spoke with that gravelled tone that she’d always felt like fingers on her skin. His green eyes were bright and fierce underneath the fringe of his hair as he stared at her, unblinking. He stalked closer, gaze studying her face, peering into her eyes. 

This wasn’t what she needed. A month ago she would have wanted this, exactly this, in the face of tragedy. His appearance in the darkness of her grief would show her that, despite everything, he cared. But now? Her hands balled into fists on top of her knees as she glared back at him. “What do you want?” 

“I wanted to see you. To know if you remained well.” His expression became overly smooth, guarded. 

“To know whether or not I’ve got pustules and ichor, hmm? Didn’t trust Anders and Varric saying I was fine? Worried that you’d find me in here bathing in the blood of random orphans from Darktown?” The words barely escaped her clenched teeth. 

Maker, if things had gone differently any of those things could have been true by now. It had been so clear in that moment, her weakness and desperation so profound… she felt sudden, nauseating sympathy for any mage in Kirkwall who had ever made that choice in panic and fear. 

She smiled sharply at him. “Or you decided that it’d be better if I was dead?” 

His eyes darkened and narrowed, his own voice growing thin and angry. “Do you think it is such a stretch to worry over those things? Fasta vass, I do not wish you dead! You are impossible, but you are mine to protect and this… this weakness you have shown hounds my sleep.” He began to pace, one of his gauntlets, the one bearing the red scarf bound at the wrist, raking through his hair. 

“Yours to what now? Yours? You mean, your mistake, right? Your weak, pathetic, power hungry, mad-fucking-mage mistake?” For the first time in weeks she felt like she could kill something. She could just reach for the lightning, or the nightmares and lash out. His? Was he serious? After he’d stood just there, by the fireplace and told her he had to go, it was all too painful, and that it should never have happened at all. Had he expected her to wait? “You’re… Maker, Fenris. Just go away.” 

As always when he grabbed her arms, he seemed to forget the strength of his hands and the sharp tips of his gauntlets. For the first time it made her feel nothing but rage when he hauled her to her feet and shook her, no fluttering of desire at the press of his palms, no anticipation that he might lay his mouth over hers. “Listen when I speak, for once in your life, woman! You tried to give yourself to a demon! I am not willing to let that happen. Ever.” 

She thought about headbutting him right in the mouth. Could he look so condescending when he sneered with blood on his teeth from his own split lip? “You know what? I don’t give a single shit what you are willing to let happen. Do you care what happens to me, how I’m feeling, whether my heart is broken for my mother? Because that’s what you’d be asking me if you were a friend.” She poked his chestplate hard, bruising her fingertip. “But no, you came here to be, what, my master? Make my choices for me? You want to be in charge of my life? I will personally go find a bronto cock for you to eat.” 

Hawke watched him recoil at the word _master_ as she’d intended. He accused her of not listening? For having giant ears and the vaunted elvhen hearing, he never heard anything! 

His hands released her arms and his mouth twisted in distaste. “You know that is not--” 

“What you meant? When you said I was ‘yours to protect’ what else does that mean, you self-righteous bastard?” She poked his chest again, punctuating the next four words she repeated. “I. Am. Not. Yours. You made that abundantly clear.” 

The sullenness leached out of Fenris’ mouth, replaced by a snarl of anger. “Your inconstancy should not surprise me given how easily you nearly fell under a demon’s sway.” 

“What?” She stared at him, open-mouthed for a moment.

“The words of love, your proclamations, and here you…” He looked down at the red wrapping around his wrist, his expression twisting, and becoming almost desperate as he darted his gaze back to her face. “Are you his, then? You want the mercenary, because he saved you from your own weakness?” 

Fenris was jealous? Of Alistair. Had the elf always seen himself as the keeper of her, what? Magely virtue? The one who would stop her from being taken by demons and now he’d been supplanted. Someone else had shoved her, quite painfully in fact, back from that edge and now Fenris thought his place in her life was gone? Fuck him. She had offered him friendship, a place in her bed, and love, not a job being her jailor. 

She squashed the brief, small voice that agreed when he asked if she wanted the other warrior. That wasn’t what she needed right now. Shit. 

“No, Fenris.” She rubbed her forehead, the seething rage becoming something still and brittle. “You don’t get to do that. Get out. You said it was a mistake and I took your word for it. I moved on.” Had she? Well if she had, wouldn’t it be wonderful if she’d ruined it already? “Now pull your head out of your ass and get the fuck out of my house. You are not welcome here.” 

The lines of his face seemed to deepen as he watched her grow distant and cold. “Hawke, I apologize if--” 

She held up a hand in front of his face, one finger raised in warning. There was the slightest wince in his still features, a mastered flinch, and it made her want to seethe again. “If you say, ‘I apologize if your feelings are hurt’ I will be cleaning bits of you off the ceiling for a week.” He reached for her wrist and she let him take it, but her hard gaze did not waver. 

His green eyes were wide and a little glassy. He was afraid. Fenris, so fierce and imperious and impossible, was afraid and she felt chilled. Afraid that she was sending him away forever? Afraid she’d let him face Danarius alone? Maybe. She felt tears well in her eyes and she swallowed hard. They were so ill-suited, all her fury and venom pushing everyone away out of fear, while his pride and superiority kept them away out of self-loathing. There was no way for them not to wound each other. 

Hawke was tired of hurting people? The very thought made her dizzy.

“Shit, Fenris, this isn’t… I don’t hate you. I am just not… everything hurts right now. You should have heard what I said to Anders. Accused him of making a deal with a demon for his own vengeance. You’d have been proud I think, and Maker I’m just so glad Mother hasn’t had to listen to me scream and swear the last two weeks.” She looked away as she rambled, trying to imagine the Fenris-entrails on the ceiling, or what a bronto cock would look like, anything to keep those tears from cresting her lids and spilling down her cheeks. Not in front of him. Fuck. 

The hand that enclosed her wrist gripped harder for a moment, the strength of his fingers acknowledging the words. “I do not want you to hate me, Hawke. It would be difficult to be alone again.” 

“You aren’t alone.” She shifted her arm so he had to release her wrist, and used the back of her hand to brush her tears away. Wait, was she consoling him, reassuring _him_? She was. She really fucking was. “I just don’t really like you right now. But I fucking hate me, so I guess you’re winning.” She gave him a false, cracked smile. “Now go away so that I can wallow.” 

“Very well.” He frowned faintly at her, and then shook his head at whatever his lips parted to say before he turned away. 

She watched him go, waited until the door downstairs thumped closed. She pressed her fingers into her temples to ease the headache that was blooming, a complicated congruence of at least three different types. 

She wanted to be drunk.

Anders would be by later and the library had the good whiskey in it. She sighed, and padded down the stairs to find a book and a chair and wallow until someone came and told her to go to bed. 

Once she was in front of the fire she sipped from her glass and scowled as she thought about Fenris’ visit. This was a mess. A nightmare. If she hadn’t stumbled into someone to fuck the night she met Alistair would it be different now? Would she be a demon or would Fenris be in her arms?

The image of herself twined and tangled with the lean, corded body of the elf while the lyrium in his skin hum and sparked against her flesh, was pale, distant. Instead of a want so bad it ached she felt wistful. If she no longer wanted that with him, if it would only ever be bruises and aching scars between them, what next?

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about hazel eyes and that swift, startling smile, and weight and warmth, and rest? She gulped down the whiskey she held in two swallows and rose to pour more. 

This here, this was a great reason not to get involved. She should be busy mourning her mother, moving past the grief and the ache, and instead she was staring morosely at the hearth while she thought about her lovelife. 

Maybe that was a sign it was time to leave the house again, take up the job, do the violence. Fucking void. 

Eventually she would have to pick up the pieces of her life, but not tonight. Tonight was for wallowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These sequences with bereavement and grieving have been tricky for me to write. Almost a year ago I suffered a very profound, very sudden, very brutal loss and trying to write through that to make it feel real while also serve a narrative has been hard and also good. I know it is tonally uneven, but hey there we are. 
> 
> Thanks for continuing to read!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair gets a visitor from home, Hawke runs her mouth (surprising, right?), and a certain amount of warm fuzzy feels are acknowledged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ahoy!

The faces in the Hanged Man common room were always indistinctly identical. Hawke could see Isabela propping up her end of the bar, Varric telling stories by the unlit hearth, and Corff slinging mugs of the worst fucking ale in Thedas. With those three icons firmly ensconced the crowd that busied itself stinking up the joint was ever changing and always the same. 

Unlike the last time Hawke had wandered through here, looking for neither Varric nor Isabela, she was sober. And sweaty. Also faintly nauseated. The heat had settled onto Lowtown in earnest, and everything smelled like the inside of an unwashed bellybutton that had been stuffed full of Nevaraan fermented fish paste. 

Inside the Hanged Man was all that and so much more. 

Both Isabela and Varric shot her glances as she passed through the common room, eyebrows raised to see her there. She gave a miniscule shake of her head to both of them before they moved to meet her. The last thing she needed was to be welcomed back to Lowtown society with terrible whiskey and toasts to the departed, derailed and vomitous before she ever got to say what she’d intended to say. 

She was already feeling well and truly tired of the intolerable heat and smell of Kirkwall in the summer. Helping Anders with an overwhelming influx of patients with explosive bowels had done absolutely nothing to improve her mood, and she had spent several days ignoring a letter from the bloody Viscount’s office about the Qunari again. Then there was the Bone Pit. And the Templars. And always more slavers. 

If she didn’t do this now, it wasn’t getting done. 

Humility was not something that Hawke did well. She probably couldn’t even fucking spell it if somebody asked her to. Trying to reach out. Apologize, show gratitude. Trying, that was all she’d agreed to. 

Unfocused eyes and an overly brisk gait got her to the door and she banged on it before she fully halted. It was late in the evening. Tenth bell had sounded shortly after she had emerged from Darktown, and hopefully he was within. There was no answer the second or the third time she knocked. 

Apparently Alistair had better things to do than stew in the Solace heat in his windowless room in one of the smelliest buildings in an extremely smelly part of a magnificently redolent city. Because of fucking course. 

Well, she’d tried. When Anders gave her that look, the look he’d been giving her for a week, since she’d told him about her surprise visit from Fenris, she could now say that she’d attempted in good faith to do as he insisted and also to mind his own cocked up business. She hated that look. 

Hawke hunched onto the stool next to Isabela when she returned the common room. She held up three fingers to Corff, then hooked a thumb over her shoulder at Varric. The barman smirked and shook his head, but brought her a dingey glass with a good three inches of whiskey in it, and then made an indecipherable scribble on a scrap of parchment tacked under the counter. The dwarf’s tab was often abused when he wasn’t paying attention, but usually that was because he was telling ridiculous stories about her, so she didn’t feel bad. 

“What’s wrong, sweet girl?” Isabela’s warm shoulder bumped against Hawke’s as the pirate leaned closer, nudging her own empty cup forward. 

Hawke snorted and poured half her measure of whiskey into Isabela’s glass, then drank the remainder in one stinging gulp. “How long do you have?” She cleared her burning throat and leaned against the bar. 

Warm fingers that Hawke remembered washing her hair sweetly now grazed the nape of her neck with nails and lips brushed her ear. “As long as you need. For you, Hawke? I could go all night.” 

She folded her arms on the bar and let her forehead thump onto them. After a moment of swallowing her irritation she turned her face toward the other woman where she leaned back against the bar. The pirate glanced down out of the corner of her eye, sultry smile doing a bad job of masking concern. 

“Anders never taught me the thing you seem to think all mages do, so I’d be pretty fucking disappointing. No sparklefingers here.” She raised the hand nearer to Isabela and gave her fingers a wag, then stopped. 

The door slammed at the front of the tavern, followed by the type of shout that signalled a bar fight. It would have warranted just a glance normally, to ascertain whether she could get away with hitting anyone with a chair, but tonight it wasn’t typical Lowtown roughs. 

Alistair was there, glowering at an older, slighter man with red hair that lightened to yellowish at the temples. The redhead was dressed in silk and velvet, looking ridiculously stifled but also enviably clean. He was laughably out of place in the tavern. 

It was Alistair who was shouting. “Maker’s breath, Teagan, I said ‘no’. I don’t care what that… woman said. She threw me out of the Wardens and Ferelden!” 

Hawke slid off the stool. She should have assessed the threat of the guards behind the nobleman called Teagan. There were three of them, but beyond that Hawke didn’t see anything. She was watching the tendons in Alistair’s neck ridge, the muscle in his jaw clench and unclench. One of his hands was balled in a fist, and she wished she could see the lines of his veins cut against his skin over the hard muscle of his forearm. 

Well that certainly settled that. Anders, with his lifted eyebrow and his pouty moue of disapproval, and his too knowing sniffs, had been right. She should have come to find the lug that saved her from demonic possession sooner. Shitballs. 

“Alistair, see reason. The queen herself has issued--” 

“Ooh, the queen? The queen signed a proclamation about me? And here I was afraid she’d forgotten my name.” He stepped closer to Teagan. “I don’t care if it was the princess of all the mabari in Highever that called me back. I’m not going. Not for Anora, not for Elissa, not for Princess Chompy of Fleasdale. Not for you or Eamon.” There was a tremble in his shoulders that spoke of barely controlled anger. “Now go away and let me drink myself to the void in bloody peace.” 

When Alistair stalked away he didn’t see anyone around him, his eyes dark and furious, taking the steps up to the guest rooms two at a time. Teagan nodded to his guards who started to trail after him, a crossbow readied, sword loosened in its scabbard, led by one weedy fellow who had daggers but also several vials on his belt and an empty black bag tucked behind. Hawke did not like the look of him at all. 

The anger that welled up in her caught her breath. She had to grapple it, force it into shape and substance, because it very nearly boiled out of her in a tempest of lightning and wind to take the three guards and their employer straight to the void, and it seemed ill-advised to use that kind of magic here. Besides, Norah and Corff deserved better than that kind of mess. 

She swallowed hard against the sting of magic in her throat and took a deep breath. Varric was always telling her to use her words. Well then. 

She found herself in the middle of the common room, one hand outstretched toward the guards, the other clenching and unclenching around her staff. Alistair was gone already. So… her and three professional killers and/or kidnappers. That was okay. She could do that. She hadn’t killed morons in weeks and these men might not have to die, but she had no fear that she wouldn’t be able to handle them. She half wished they would be too stupid to be deterred, just so that rage would have somewhere to go. 

It surprised her, though it shouldn’t have, when Varric and Isabela fell in beside her without a glance or a whistle. They just appeared. Well, now if it came to a fight it would just be boring. The hired thugs paused when their way was blocked and and the weedy poisoner glanced at Teagan. Alright, he was the lead and the only one of the lot who looked actively dangerous. Hawke’s fingers twitched and he collapsed on the ground, unconscious. That kind of magic was fine. People fell down unconscious in the Hanged Man all the time. 

The eyebrows of the lord tried to climb up his forehead and straight into hair. “I don’t know who you think you are, but we are on the business of the Fereldan Crown and it would behoove you--” 

“Did he just say, behoove, Rivaini?” 

Isabela yawned and then tilted her head to the side. “It’s a walking cliche of villainous smarm, Varric. There’ll be nothing left for you to embellish.” 

Hawke ignored them. She stepped closer and there was a glint of belligerent privilege in Teagan’s eyes as she tipped her chin to look up at them. She watched his self-assurance fade into a grim wariness. There were very few people in the world (insane ones, the Arishok, and the madam at the Blooming Rose) that didn’t feel like she was looking down at them when she did that regardless of relative height. 

It was the scent of lightning in her hair, the way her blue eyes went black as the pupils dilated, the way her nostrils flared as she caught the echo of the blood she could spill moments from now… or that was the fucking bullshit that Varric peddled anyway. Really, she just looked like someone who would kill people, and that was okay because it was true. 

To stop slavers, to save apostates, to just generally screw up the plans of the Templars she would certainly kill. For her friends? Oceans of blood. Goosebumps lifted on her arms and the back of her neck as she realized that she would have been as angry with someone who posed this threat to Isabela or Varric or Merrill. It was the same sort of rage she’d felt facing Hadriana for Fenris, or Alrik for Anders. It was the same impulse that had led her to nearly shed her own blood, bargain away her soul, to stop her mother’s spirit from fleeing the husk she’d been bound in. It was a blanketing, resounding _no_ to anyone who dared touch her… her fucking family. She wasn’t losing another void sucking one of them. 

“Teagan, yes? Teagan, lord of some shitstain Arldom or fuckholding of a croft or Bann of people with no more brains than what is packed into the ass of your average nug? You want to live? Then go. Now. And don’t come back.” She reached up slowly and patted his shoulder comfortingly. 

“You… you’re an apostate! I’ll go to the Templars and you’ll be taken to justice for interfering here.” It was impressive, the way the man didn’t sputter. He sounded a little fussy, priggish maybe, but he also had the hardened mien of someone who had seen some shit. 

“Oh Teagan, the Unremembered, a corpse that got eaten by pigs in the hold of a ship carrying livestock in the harbor while no one in Lowtown saw anything. You don’t have to die. But you’re right.” She leaned very close, her lips brushing his cheek as she murmured. “I am an apostate and if you think someone like me lives in Hightown and kills for a living without having _friends_ in the Gallows, you go ahead and try that. Tell the Knight-Captain I said hullo. And that I’d like him to send me back your cock as a memento.”

He was very still as she leaned back just enough to look up at him. She loved her friends. Neither Varric nor Isabela made any sort of choking noises that would have given that particularly balls-out bluff away. The corner of Teagan’s eye was twitching and she watched his throat convulse as he swallowed. 

“The Viscount knows my name. The Arishok knows my name. And everyone in this town knows that you leave Hawke’s people alone. Alistair is one of mine and if you want to live, cock in hand or pants or wherever you keep it, you sticky glob of dried bronto spunk, you will leave him alone.” She leaned forward again, a hand resting on his chest, and brushed her lips against his jaw just under his ear. Then she turned and strode away, up toward Varric’s suite, without looking back. 

It took Varric and Isabela a minute to catch up to her and as soon as they were all in chairs around Varric’s table, door closed, the rogues collapsed with laughter. Isabela was practically crying as she pointed at Hawke. “Hawke, oh Hawke, honey. He had the biggest hardon when you walked away. And I think he wet his pants. You have balls like a bloody Qunari. No, bigger. You’ve got Archdemon balls, you.” 

Varric was trying to scribble notes while his shoulders shook, shaking his head from side to side. “I have to say, Hawke, I don’t always agree with your methods, but that was… it was truly a privilege.” 

After she had steadied her heartbeat after three long, slow breaths, Hawke hauled herself to her feet. “I’m going to go make sure they stay off him.” 

“I hope you do that by getting up on him.” Isabela’s eyebrows lifted archly. 

“Shut up.” Hawke shook her head and slipped out of the suite before following the hall around the corner to Alistair’s door. 

This again. Her and this fucking door. She was shaking slightly from the anger boiling up in her over Alistair’s safety. When had he become so fucking important? She glared at the unvarnished wood. Too late for common sense about it now. 

Hawke sighed at the door and then tapped lightly with her knuckles before calling, “Alistair? It’s Hawke.” 

There was a bit of shuffling and the distinct sound of a sword being drawn from a scabbard before the door opened inward. Alistair looked at her with a faint frown, then up and down the hallway. 

“I didn’t come here to fucking lure you out for an ambush.” She resisted feeling the vague disappointment that was seeping in, replacing the buzzing that remained in her skin from facing down Teagan. No, it didn’t stand to reason that he automatically felt the same way. After she had fucked off on him when he tried to be sweet to her. Her mouth tightened. “Are you okay?” 

The frown deepened and Alistair’s teeth dragged over his bottom lip as he considered her. “Am… am I okay?” One corner of his mouth creased back in a humorless quirk while his brows remained together. “Me? Am I okay…?” The sword she knew he held fell to the ground, a clang ringing behind the door. He pulled it fully open and stepped into the doorway, looking down at her. 

“The thing downstairs. Teagan? I just thought… Maker’s ass, what did I think?” She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she appeared at his door. The last he’d seen of her she’d been catatonic with everyone wondering if she was going to be an abomination when she woke up. She glanced sideways, wrinkling her nose. “Fuck, this was stupid. I’m sorry and I’ll go if you want. I tried to take care of it, but if he--” 

Hawke wasn’t sure what happened first. One of his hands slid to the small of her back, while the other moved into her hair, thumb just in front of her ear, and the hot weight of his mouth was on hers, claiming it without hesitance or finesse. It was just crushing pressure that seemed to issue from inside as well as out and was only eased when she parted her lips and opened her mouth so that he could take it. 

It was a taking. Bruising, teeth knocking against teeth, the slight stubble of a morning shave dragging against her lips and chin, tongue that seemed to want to rut against hers. She couldn’t fight for control, or meet it with the same intensity. They’d both end with blood on their faces, minus teeth that way. Instead she had to yield the wet well of her mouth to him and let him take. 

The hand on her back curved lower, following the cleft of her ass and dragging her forward against him. He pivoted until she was backed against the doorjamb. His knee pressed between her legs, pinning the skirt of her robes there. She moaned into his mouth at the taste of his tongue, dark and bitter, smoke and spice. His smell was sweat and dust and leather. He ground up against her hipbone and then stilled suddenly, curling down until his face was pressed into the crook of her neck. 

For the first time since he grabbed her she raised her hands to touch him, reflecting for a moment that she’d let her staff go at some point. She brushed her fingers lightly over the back of his neck, the broad, taut expanse of his shoulders, felt his muscles twitching under his shirt. She trembled, a hard knot swelling in her throat and behind her breastbone and in the pit of her stomach, the same knot in all those places, and also low in her belly, heavy and hot. 

“Alistair?” Her breath rustled against his hair. 

He straightened just enough to press his lips against her forehead and then gathered her in against his chest. This embrace was warmth and safety, encompassing instead of devouring. “Maker, Caralyn, don’t ever do that to me ever again ever ever.” 

“What exactly?” She felt his snort against the top of her head. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I do a lot of shitty things. I don’t have time to keep track. Be specific.” Her fingers traveled down from his shoulders to the waistband of his trousers, trailing there lightly. 

This time the huff into her hair was all frustration and no humor. He pulled her into the room, shut the door, and then looked down at her, eyes glittering. “Let’s see. How specific can I be? The next time you think maaaybe you’d like to become an abomination-- not attractive, by the way, with all the lumps and the gristle and the screaming-- next time you consider it, and someone stops you, let that someone know you are alive, and sane and not a blighted blood mage or possessed by a demon!” His hands were no longer on her, clenching into fists at his side. 

“No one told you.” She was an idiot. Why would they have? She thought that at least Anders would have… what? He’d been frantically busy in the clinic during the day, and he’d been spending his nights minding her, making sure she didn’t lapse completely into melancholy. No one else was really privy to what she’d been up to with the man before her, and they were loyal and protective, and Maker she was an idiot.

“No one told me.” His hazel eyes were dark, the gaze dragging over her face hungry and worried, and painfully relieved all at once. “I mean, why would they? Should I have asked them? First your blond friend with the blue glowy thing that is actually so scary I’m reconsidering your sanity… he thought I was a Templar that tried to kill you. Quite a row there, but the dwarf managed to keep him from pulling all my flesh off like he was peeling an apple.” 

“Alistair…” His name was barely a whisper on her lips and he continued. 

“I was given the rare privilege of trailing after them to your house, where no one really seemed to notice me. Then your mad elf, who is not afraid of blue glowy things since he bloody well is one, thought maybe he should just kill you anyway to be safe. Oh look, more shouting!” One of his hands unfisted long enough to rake through his hair, which clumped where it was damp from sweat. 

She swallowed as she tracked the movement and tried again. “Alistair.” 

“And before I knew what was happening I was pushed out onto the street by a Rivaini pirate and a Dalish girl whose name I don’t know seeing as someone failed to introduce us. Ever since then whenever I see the dwarf or the blasted pirate they won’t meet my eyes and because they are fucking rogues I can’t corner them!” His voice was raised to a shout by the end, and he closed his eyes for a moment while he breathed hard. 

The world of feelings, words, and how feelings and words related, these were not Hawke’s strongest subjects, unless the words were fuck, fucking, or fucked and the feelings were anger or belligerence. The fear that she heard in Alistair’s voice, the words he used, made her flinch and she tried to step back, but his hands closed on her shoulders again. It was a lighter touch than she expected, one she could still step out of, and the gentleness of it drew her eyes up to him again. “Alistair, I am sorry.” 

“Please, Caralyn, don’t ever do that again.” The sweet note of pleading in his breath as it ghosted over her lips made her eyes sting and she swallowed. 

Suddenly his hands felt too heavy on her shoulders. It was that fucking kindness again. She aimed for sardonic when she spoke. She missed. “It wasn’t like I planned that. The next time my mother gets murdered and used for… fucking doll parts, I’ll be sure to clear my snap decisions with you ahead of time.” 

Ignoring the way he flinched, she rolled her shoulders out of his grip and stepped back. She could feel her spine straightening, back going stiff as before a fight, the razor’s edge of her loss cutting through the knots that were binding her to him, scent and heat and slick tongue, all those falling away bloody as she thought about black stitches and gray skin and words given to Anders instead of her. 

The furrow of his brow softened, and maybe there was dampness in his eyes as he reached a hand to brush her cheek? “Maker, I… I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. What happened to your mother was evil. You didn’t deserve that.” Just like that she was back with him, her eyes focused on the tenderness in his expression. It was time to go. 

She coughed something bitter, almost like a laugh. “How could anybody deserve that?” She glanced around the doorway, looking for her staff. Outside then. She was busy shoving all her fragments back down, avoiding his eyes, as she opened the door and poked her head out. Even if she didn’t deserve it, she should have expected it because that was the kind of cocked up nonsense that ran her life. She grabbed her staff from where it leaned against the wall and hovered in the doorway. 

The wounded look he was giving her as she prepared to leave made her stomach ache. She needed to remember that he didn’t know her, didn’t read her silences, her furies, well. She tilted her head toward the door. “Well? Are you coming or not? I don’t have all blighted night.” 

He’d worn at least four different frowns since she’d knocked on his door, but this one could only be described as flabbergasted. “Umm. What?” 

She rolled her eyes dramatically and fixed him with an impatient look. “Your Fereldan friends? They’re not going to wait for you to board the ship back to Denerim all on your own. They’ve got knives and poisons and a black bag for your face. You can’t stay here.” 

“My… Teagan? Teagan wouldn’t do that.” He did, however, retrieve his sword and resheathed it. 

“Well, if I misunderstood I’ll send him a fucking fruit basket in apology for promising to feed him his cock if anything happened to you.” She rolled her hand, encouraging him to keep moving. 

His eyebrow arched precipitously and he coughed, startled and incredulous. “I… umm. That is just disturbing, and oddly sweet, and I still don’t think I understand what you’re talking about.” 

“Maker, Alistair, just move your ass. I’ll explain it later, but if they decide that I’m full of shit and come after you, it’ll be easier if you aren’t here. Also better for me if they end up bringing Templars.” The urge to rub her forehead overpowered her. She was trying to stay focused and she still needed to truly apologize, but mostly she wanted to scream obscenities and make something explode. The shift from the heat with which he’d greeted her to the clipped briskness she wore now had unbalanced her and she felt creaky and defensive. 

He watched her for a moment and then sighed through his nose and began to move. He pulled on his light mail with surprising quickness, buckling the cuirass and chausses over his clothes efficiently, without bothering to pull on his leathers first. When that was settled he began throwing things into a pack, muttering. “Survive the blight, leave the bossy ladies behind. That was the only plan, but that’s what comes of trying to plan, Alistair. You’re lucky you aren’t being carted over her shoulder without any pants.” She rolled her eyes at his back.

It took only minutes for him to be ready, shield and sword strapped to his back, pack in hand. There was nothing left in the room that was personal and Hawke’s eyebrows lifted as he glanced at her. 

“Impressed? You have no idea how many woman have thrown themselves at me over my ability to pack. It’s embarrassing really. Try not to stare.” His lips were curved and wry and there was a little spark in his eyes that eased some of the sharp edges she seemed to have developed internally.

Shaking her head, she led him out of the room and out of the inn. They stopped at Varric’s doorway long enough for Hawke to let him know where notes on any further Fereldan developments might be sent, and then they took the stairs to Hightown. 

The night was silent aside from their footsteps, and a late haze had blown in from the ocean, obscuring the stars. It seemed like she caught him looking at her every seventh step, and his gaze softened from irritation to confusion and concern and further to something just the warm side of sly as they neared her home. Considering? Appreciative. It made her scowl, even while her cheeks flushed. That he was making her blush by just looking at her was fucking ridiculous. 

She decided to stop looking at him, and focus instead on her sticky discomfort. It was humid and still sweltering, but at least in the residential quarter the stench lessened. It only really dissipated completely when they reached the estate and she let them inside. 

Once the door was closed behind them, Alistair rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and glanced at her. His ears were pink. “All that nonsense about Teagan was a ruse to get me into your bed, wasn’t it?” He smirked as he attempted to sound affronted. “Really, you could have just asked.” 

She was going to get wrinkles from all the eyerolling. It was worse than being around Anders when he was nervous. “Shut up.” She led him up the stairs and at the top he grabbed her arm. 

“Are you going to tell me what is going on? I feel like I should know whether or not to expect assassins in the middle of the night.” His thumb brushed under her chin and then back along the edge of her jaw, until his hand settled, cupping her neck. 

It was strange how comfortable he was touching her, like his hands were at home on her. Thinking back on their trysts they weren’t the kind of thing that built easy intimacy, but somehow he kept reaching for her, and she could feel her skin sing where his calluses brushed it. She shook her head slowly as she responded to his question. “I’m tired. And I want a bath because I stink like Darktown. We can talk in the morning.” 

He was standing very close to her again, the hand on her arm sliding down to the back of her hand. He lifted it to kiss the palm and then pressed his nose against the inside of her wrist and inhaled. “I don’t think you smell that bad.”

“You’ve been living in Lowtown. Your nose may not have survived with its wits in tact.” 

His laughter was low and warm as he pressed a kiss over the flutter of her pulse in her wrist, then scraped it with his teeth. She couldn’t quite catch the strangled gasp that tugged from her throat and he grinned. “Will you let me wash your hair?” 

Her first thought, sudden and half-formed, was that her mother would hear them in the bathing chamber. Fighting tears, flinching away from this new pang of loss, she nearly said aloud that he could have the bath and find a guest room and that she was too tired to let him do anything. A lot of incredible bullshit, really. His mouth was warm against her wrist, fingers curled around the back of her hand and his thumb against her palm rubbing slow circle while the fingers of his other hand strayed just slightly into her hair and Maker, she wanted this. She really wanted him. She pressed her fingers against his cheek, turning his face toward her and then brushed her lips against his. 

“Okay.” She darted the tip of her tongue out to the curve of his lower lip. 

“Yes?” 

“Yes! Void, you do that every time. Yes, you can wash my fucking hair as long as you don’t ask me any more stupid questions. Just shut up.” She was only inches from his face, the usual exasperation absent from her scolding. 

He smiled. “Make me.” 

“Fine.” So she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we will all get to see exactly how she shuts him up in the next section, never you fret.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody order a dominant Alistair? Because I just got this in the post. 
> 
> In which bath funtimes and smut and Hawke is letting herself get in way over her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little hair washing, hair pulling, and oral sexing.

Steam had barely begun to rise from the water filling the big stone tub. Hawke had never had much affinity for fire, and the runes that Sandal had created to heat the giant basin were more or less essential to her existence. She didn’t have an army of servants to man the old creaky wood-fired boiler in the basement and baths in this monstrous combination of Dwarven plumbing and old Imperium decadence were the only thing that she lived for some days. 

The noise behind her signalled Alistair’s return, and she turned slightly from where she perched on the raised edge of the sunken tub to watch him enter the tiled chamber. He had begged use of the privy, and somewhere along the way had stripped out of his armor and boots. Barefoot, he padded toward her and she felt a strange fluttering grip her middle, as if nervous fingers were looking for a place to alight in her stomach. 

She dropped her eyes back to the water and ran her hand through it before quieting the rune with a brush of her fingers. It was just slightly warm, anything hotter would feel like sitting in a soup pot after the heat of the day. 

There was a rustle and the sound of cloth hitting the floor behind her. The footsteps drew closer and then the weight of his hand settled on her hair, drawing her eyes back up to him. He had stripped off his shirt and was standing there, tawny in the yellow light of the oil lamps and candles. The sight of him caught in her throat and she blushed, feeling like an idiot. More than usual. 

He was all over hard muscle, thick arms and broad shoulders, she’d felt that through his clothes when they’d been together. This was the first time she’s actually seen him, his skin more tanned than she’d expected, though still fair, interrupted by the wealth of scars his life as a Grey Warden and later as a mercenary have left him with. White seams and ridged skin of sword wounds, puckered knots where arrows had caught him. One spot on his side looked suspiciously like a giant dog had grabbed him and shaken him. Her fingers brushed that one. “Fucking dragons. I bet this stung.” 

Alistair’s laugh was surprised, his eyebrows raising as he looked down at her. “Have you ever been gnawed on by one? It isn’t comfortable. At all.” She turned to face him, the dressing gown she’d pulled on after her shedding her clothes falling open up to her thigh. 

“Once or twice. But Anders keeps me largely bite-mark free.” Her fingers trailed to the lacing of his breeches and began tugging them open. He dressed left, the thick ridge of his hardening length showing against his leg. It was going to take a little maneuvering to pull him free and he solved her awkwardness by just pushing down his breeches and smallclothes. 

Well, that hadn’t made her feel clumsy at seducing a man she’d already fucked at all. Her ears warmed slightly and she hid the blush she felt starting by burying her face against his pelvis, the heat of his velvet skin twitching against her cheek. She tugged the legs of his trousers off one foot at a time, and then looked back up at him.

Alistair’s eyes widened as she pressed a kiss at the base his cock, just above his sack, and sucked gently on the vein. She heard him inhale sharply as her tongue chased up the underside of the shaft to the flat just before the head. Smiling, she watched his face. His skin was flushed, and lips parted, and really he looked startled. Well, it wasn’t as if she’d had much hand in their earlier engagements. She placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the head, letting her tongue trace the slit, and then pulled free. 

The growl he voiced as her mouth left him called a smirk to her lips and she leaned back a little. “You were the one who wanted to wash my hair.” 

His answering sigh was dramatic and put-upon. “Yes, well, more the fool me.” He knelt in front of her, his hands moving to take the pins out of the messy knot that held her hair up. “Wait a minute. The bath was your idea! You’re a wicked, tricksy woman.” He tugged open the belt on her dressing gown and pushed it off her shoulders. 

“And still with the fucking talking.” She pulled her arms free and pivoted on the tub edge, sinking her legs down into the water. He laughed and followed her in. 

The talking stopped then, replaced with soap and oils and slippery skin as they flirted and touched, tangled together, and this was new. It was slow and it was open, naked, facing each other. She ran her tongue along his scars, sat in his lap with her legs around his waist to kiss his throat while she rubbed against him. It was patient and tender and for the first time she didn’t have the urge to run or bare her teeth when she looked at him and saw him smiling. 

Eventually she sat between his legs while he washed her hair. His fingers were strong as they dragged through the strands, rubbing back down her scalp to knead at the base of her neck, then back up. He spent time rubbing gently behind her ears and then lightly massaged her earlobes between thumb and forefinger, pulling on them gently, the contrast between the slide of the soap and his calluses making her nipples tighten. 

She leaned back against his chest, arching her back, and his hands found the tightening flesh and pinched there too, harder, and it made her whimper. 

They had been in the tub long enough for the water to grow tepid, suspended together in lazy desire, and this new coiling of urgency made Hawke gasp. “Al-listair. I… you should, ahh, f-finish up now.” He slowly pulled her nipples until they slipped free, making her hips twitch and fingers dig into his knees.

She felt his cock throb against her lower back, but instead of answering he pushed her forward and then eased her head back to rinse her hair. She could see him, inverted, looking down at her and he lowered his face to her. Kissing him at this angle was different, no noses to contend with, his mouth on her lower lip, and the rough sides of their tongues sliding together. When he pulled back, lifting her back to sitting she felt the pleading bubble up in her throat. “Please…” 

He shifted until he was sitting on the side of the tub, and she twisted to look at him, the water droplets on his skin flashing gold and silver in the wavering light. He was smiling at her, something hungry in it, lurking under the pleased warmth. He held his hand out to her. “Something you need?” She placed her hand in his and he drew her up until she was standing between his knees. His mouth fell on her stomach, kissing and sucking his way up her torso until his teeth closed over her right nipple gently. 

“You. I fucking need you.” Her voice was a little ragged, and his mouth stilled for a moment, but aside from a flash gold in the rich hazel of his eyes his expression didn’t change. When he began licking the nipple he had claimed there was increased intensity, and soon he was sucking at her breast, his hand full of the other one, nipple caught and drawn between his fingers again. 

Despite the increased fervency, he didn’t seem inclined to stop teasing her so she pulled away, catching his face in her hands. She kissed him hard and then whispered against his mouth, “Please, Alistair, please fuck me.” 

This time when that flash happened in his eyes, Hawke was looking for it and she pressed her forehead against his. Somewhere in him, behind a carefully constructed wall, fires burned, and when she begged for him it fanned them until she could see the blaze through the cracks. Even though the flash was there, his expression was diffident, almost guarded. Restrained.

She’d thought she understood him. Disciplined as a lover, waiting when it was appropriate, pressing when not. Skilled, but with a reserve, a certain shyness or uncertainty. It had seemed like pride the last time she had been with him, his fingers moving in her, dragging her to climax, and then simply holding her instead of seeking his own pleasure. But in the flicker of light in his eyes, the flash that burned and then fled as she pleaded… that was a flame that hungered and it wanted to fucking devour her. 

Her hands trembled on as they trailed to his shoulders, and she used him to steady herself as she stepped up and out of the bath. She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, watched his eyes close for a moment as a shiver ran over him. 

What would he be like if he let go of his control? Did she trust him enough, know him well enough, with his Templar powers and his huge hands, not to hurt her? Maker’s balls, she’d let him fuck her after he’d smited her, silenced her, in an alley at the docks. But that had been mostly about control, about walls. She could let him touch her without letting him in. This was different. 

“Alistair? Do you want to take me to bed?” She watched his head nod under her hand, and he swung his legs over the side of the basin and stood. Her feet moved along the linen runner to the bath sheets and brought one back for him. She began rubbing it over his chest and down his arms. She rubbed down the outside of one leg, then the other, then up the inside of each in turn, gently cupping and rolling his balls through the cloth, gently pulling at his cock letting the rougher cloth sensitize him slightly. She hoped she wasn’t fucking this up horrendously. 

After he was dry she wrung out her hair, chafed herself all over briskly and then pressed herself against him, arms twined around his neck. He’d stayed silent, the muscles in his shoulders visibly twitching once or twice as he mastered some impulse to reach for her. Now that her skin rubbed full length against his for the first time, just the two of them naked and warm and facing each other, his arms came around her waist. 

“Do you want to mark me?” she whispered against the underside of his jaw, and those arms spasmed tighter for a moment. “Make me beg? Fuck me unconscious and then awake again?” He was shuddering now, crushing her to him almost painfully. “Is that it?” 

“Caralyn…” Her name came out of his throat ragged and it made her squirm against him, legs squeezing together. She hoped that was what he fucking wanted because now she was having a truly shit time thinking about anything else.

“Can you tell me, please, Alistair?” She licked his earlobe, and again she wondered at this shift in him. It wasn’t only him though. Something had cracked when he’d confessed how worried he’d been, his desperate kiss back at the Hanged Man prising some part of her open. 

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse and he looked down at her, one of his hands suddenly in her hair, grip hard but not painful. He arched her neck back. 

“Please do it. Please make me scream your name.” Her breath was coming in short gasps. “I need you to fill me and mark me and make me yours.” She had played lover’s games before, but they hadn’t felt like this. 

An elf-blooded rogue from the Red Iron had enjoyed being pinned by her with one of his knives at his throat while she rode him. There had been another mage indentured to Meeran, a healer barely better than a sawbones who had asked the third time they found themselves drunk and desperate and bored if he could use a paralysis glyph on her and then fuck her. She had far more experience with impromptu desires, crashing together, coming apart just as fast. 

Here with Alistair, his hand implacably and gently pulling her hair, felt like neither of those things and she wasn’t playing when she begged and rubbed her damp curls against his leg. He was staring down at her, eyes wild with that flashing hunger as they searched her face, his own expression praying that she truly wanted this. And she did. “Please, Alistair, please have me. Fuck me until I forget my name.” 

The air left him in a rush and he pushed her down onto her knees again, fingers still in her hair, and prodded her mouth with his cock. It was hard as iron, purpling at the head, and she opened to him. He was careful, but emphatic, holding her head in place and fucking her mouth slowly and firmly, always ending his strokes before she gagged, but going so deep that each time there was the threat that he’d push farther, make her take him all the way down, cut off her air, bruise her throat. Part of her wanted him to. 

After a while his second hand tangled in her hair as well, his thrusts becoming shallower and faster in small bursts. After each of these flurries he’d press back as deep as she could take without gagging and hold her there for a breath or two. Her lips and tongue were wet friction, unable to keep suction, barely able keep her teeth from scraping too hard against the thicker shaft as he drove further in. 

Saliva was running down her chin when he backed out until he was pressed on the front part of her tongue, twitching. When he spoke it was clipped and urgent. “Suck it and swallow.” She did, hollowing her cheeks and working her tongue until he let out a strangled groan. She swallowed the excess saliva that was suddenly joined by the pulsing flood of bitter fluid. He held her in place, the fingers in her hair painful for the first time since he’d grabbed her, while his hips twitched. She continued licking and sucking and swallowing until he began to soften and his hand released her. 

When he pulled free, no more contact holding her up, she sank back onto her heels. Her hands trembled where they hung between her knees and her face tilted down to look at them. She was shaking, slightly cold, and her knees hurt, neck and lips sore, but she was wetter than she’d ever been and if he didn’t touch her again soon she was going to break one of his kneecaps with her forehead. 

Suddenly he was on the floor with her, arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his lap. “Caralyn? Maker, are you well? I didn’t mean… I would never do anything to… Did I hurt you?” 

“Shhh.” She shifted until she could look at him, see his eyes. They were sharp with worry, and she shook her head, combing her fingers back through his hair. “The only thing that’s the matter with me right now, is that you haven’t fucked me senseless yet. But I trust you to get there. Eventually. If you need a map, I could--” Her words were cut off by his mouth, tongue thrusting in brutally, a hand back in her hair and then he retreated just as quickly. 

“I happen to have an excellent sense of direction. I’ve been told. By no one. Ever.” He chuckled softly, and his lopsided smile was warming, but so was the way he openly appraised her, not furtively or sidelong anymore. He just fucking looked this time, wetting his lips, his smile growing as he looked back up to meet her eyes. And… he was already growing hard again? She raised her eyebrows and wriggled in his lap as he tried to look stern while flushing slightly. It was a mixed effort that made her smirk. “Ahh. Yes… It’s a Warden thing.”

Was he serious? Why in the void was he looking chagrined instead of smug? She ran her hand around his neck and up the back of his head, holding herself close as she murmured, “Well, aren’t I the luckiest fucking girl in Kirkwall.” She leaned in to kiss his neck, licking at the pulse point then nibbling softly. “Take me to bed, please.” 

He nodded and managed to stand with only slight awkwardness without setting her down. The strength didn’t surprise her, with how big he was, but the agile way he shifted his balance, the speed with which he moved, that always caught her off guard. 

Once he was on his feet he let her slide to hers, and her legs quaked a little, requiring her to lean on him. Or maybe she just couldn’t stop touching him, wound and needy that she was. She pulled him toward the door that led to her adjoining dressing room, and beyond that her bedroom. He stopped her just before they passed through, pulling her around and tilting her head back so that he could kiss her again, tasting and taking and perfect. 

“I will, you know.” He smiled at her, running his thumb over her lower lip.

“Will what?” Her lips parted and she darted the tip of her tongue out to flick over his pad of his thumb. She turned her face into his hand, letting her eyes close when his lips brushed against her upturned ear. 

“Make you beg. Make you mine.” 

She swallowed hard. He took her wrist in hand and then moved through to the bedroom, while she trailed behind shivering. The promise in those words clenched Hawke’s insides in a painful vice of want and need and she followed quickly, wanting to rub against him like a cat. Whatever he wanted she wanted to give. If he wanted her begging on her knees then… 

Oh. Was he…? Andraste’s neglected nethers. She didn’t think he was just talking about right now. And that should scare the shit out of her. 

The fear of being with him, in a way that made them… together as persons, not just as warm skin… that fear made her mouth dry while she felt slick and wet between her thighs and… fucking void. He was already hers. She’d said that in the Hanged Man to that pissant Teagan in front of Varric and Isabela. And the strength of the hand on her wrist, the hard grip that wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but would be nearly impossible to pull free from without using magic, that hand spoke too. 

Hawke was pretty sure it was already too late for running away while pissing her pants in cowardice. As he tugged her close and lifted her around the waist, she gasped. When he bodily threw her onto the bed with a smirk and she laughed she knew. 

She was already his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It snuck up on me, but this sort of winds up the prompt arc, but I have more story for these two that I intend to keep posting here. 
> 
> Find out what it looks like when Alistair and Caralyn actually have intercourse in a bed! What kind of terrible things will Hawke say to demolish this happy-non-ending with mortar shells of angst? What will the nobility of Ferelden try next? How will that shovel-talk that Anders has prepped go? All this and more coming soon!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Alistair make it to a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much just smut. Teasing, light D/s, Hawke being a bit of a brat.

Alistair was really fucking strong. 

Hawke knew that, empirically, from having been toted around by him before. But the way he lifted her and threw her onto the bed was shocking. And delightful. She laughed as she tumbled back into the pillows, smiling openly with that delight, and when she looked up at him she felt a sharp flush start in her cheeks, her eyebrows drawing together. He was staring at her, looking like he had been goosed or somebody had told him he had shit on the back of his pants.

Her smile fled under his flummoxed scrutiny and his eyes suddenly widened. “No!” His gasp accompanied his hurried climb across the mattress and he took her face in his hands to kiss the nascent scowl from her mouth, nipping and teasing with his tongue until she was breathless again. 

“What?” She was reclined, one of her hands on his chest, the other in the hair at the back of his head as he knelt over her. 

His face was close to hers, and he kissed the corner of her mouth as he drew back, looking puzzled. “What what?” 

Maker, he could be maddening. She almost leaned up to flick his ear. “You said, ‘No!’ suddenly, like I was stomping on a puppy or something equally horrible, and I don’t care who fucking said it, I’m not _that_ kind of asshole.” She rubbed the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose and then looked at him from under her eyelashes. This wasn’t a comfortable place for her, caring about what he thought of her. She could feel herself drawing up her scowl like a shield, letting it interrupt the closeness they’d managed in the bath, and after. 

“I… Oh! Well. You, uh, you smiled at me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his own blush pinking his ears. “And then you stopped. Which, frankly I can’t blame you for, because well, _me_ , but it was nice seeing you smile. Like you were happy. For a minute.” She didn’t know where the fuck it came from, but seeing his self-deprecation made her want to die a little. 

His commenting on her smile was also… unexpected. She had been happy, full of pleasure at the warmth of his hands and still tingling from the way he’d fucked her mouth, anticipating his fucking other things. Did she really not smile, ever?

She sat up, feeling her eyes narrow slightly as she studied him. The deep breath she took was a bit of an effort, but she didn’t want him over there, looking abashed. He needed to be over her and in her, seeing her. Making her see him. Hawke could fucking fix this. That’s what she did, she fixed problems. Usually with more violence than this seemed to call for, but… she swallowed hard, determined to try.

Shifting until she was kneeling as well, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Alistair…” She squeezed slightly and leaned forward to kiss his throat. “You promised me something.” 

“Hmm?” His hands settled on her waist as he studied her, concern and apprehension flitting through his eyes. He seemed unable to decide if she was about to tell him to get out, or have a complete meltdown, and that felt like a punch in the gut because he had no reason to trust her when she got… cranky. 

“Mmmhmm.” Her fingers ran up the back of his neck, into his hair, trying to disguise how they trembled. She could do this, she could let him in. Make him see it was okay to push in. Was it? Void, it was. She didn’t want him to let her get away. “And I am happy. But I’d be happier if your cock was in me, like you fucking promised.” She followed her words to his mouth, pressing her lips against his, tongue flicking to gain entrance, before he could respond. She could feel the breath he exhaled suddenly from his flared nostrils, and his hands took her wrists sharply and pulled her arms down in front of his chest. 

His face was usually nearly as easy as Merrill’s to read, not as open, but expressive. Hawke found her eyes searching for approval or disgruntlement or desire. She wet her lips as he looked at her with one of his eyebrows lifted and as the moment stretched on she tried to tug her hands away from him. Had she missed the mark? She felt a twist of embarrassment and pulled her arms away harder. 

His fingers tightened and her eyebrows lifted. Oh. He moved her wrists to one of his hands, holding them hard against his chest and his empty hand moved to her hair, gripping the damp strands and tugging her head back as he rose up on his knees to loom over her. “Is this what you want, Caralyn?” He leaned down to kiss her forehead and then her cheek just near her ear. “Be sure, because, you… I want… I want more.” 

More? What the fuck did that mean? More sex? Yes please. More with her, something more than sex? She wet her lips as she closed her eyes, trembling between the arch of her spine and the restraining hand on her wrists. Who the fuck was he, half the time all slight blushes and boyish smirks, almost bashful, but weary and guarded like that had only ever resulted in pain? The rest of the time she felt scorched by the heat that rolled off of him in waves of want. But she’d already decided she wanted more. He was hers, she’d said that. She fluttered with lust when he said he’d make her his, and if that’s what he meant? Her thighs were still sticky with how hard he’d made her crave that.

“Yes. Please, if you want it, then yes. More.” She swallowed hard and before she had even wet her lips again she was pressed back onto the mattress, arms pinned above her head. He could move so quickly, so precisely, it made her arch up against him, shuddering. 

The hand that had been in her hair trailed down her body to where he lay between her legs. He ran his thumb roughly between her labia, clit to ass, the rough callus of his thumb pad scraping just right on flesh that was begging to be touched. It made her whine a little, and when he grinned she glowered and squirmed. 

“Stop teasing, you smug ass.” Maker, this wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined, but she also hoped he didn’t listen. Not right away. Her arms quivered as she tried to pull them free, but he just pinned them harder, not even straining with the effort. 

“Right. That’s going to get you what you want.” He dipped his head to lick a stripe between her breasts, and then nuzzled against her throat while his thumb pressed against her clit, rolling a slow circle above it. His stubble scraped against the tender skin over her collarbone as he nudged her head to the side and bit softly into the top of her shoulder as she gasped and bucked her hips against his hand. 

“Alistair! I am going to break all your fucking fingers if you don’t stop teasing meeahhh.” She broke with a wail as his thumb slipped down and pressed into her cunt, while the pads of his first two fingers pressed against the pucker of her ass. 

“That seems like a shame. I thought you liked my fingers.” He didn’t push into the tight muscle, apparently the sudden rigidity of her body telegraphing her shock. He kept the gentle pressure there, and it wasn’t unpleasant, as he fucked her slowly with his thumb. It was wonderful to finally have something sliding inside her, but it wasn’t enough and it was the wrong angle and it left the stiff knot of her clit woefully untouched. 

“I am going to start believing in the Maker just so I can pray he sends you to the void.” She was gasping and grinding down against his hand though, her words escaping from between her clenched teeth. 

“And I think you forgot exactly what it was that I promised you.” He leaned down to take her mouth with his, the kiss maddeningly thorough and slow, measured against her panting and desperate sucking on his tongue. He pulled away, smiling at her with warm, heavy-lidded eyes that glimmered with amusement. He was so beautiful, and as soon as she’d agreed to more, all his uncertainty had seemingly melted. “What do you say, pet?”

The word pet brought a snarl to her face, even while she knew he could feel the sudden flutter around his thumb, his hand getting wetter at the endearment. It was absurd and she wanted him so badly, and she’d already begged him on her knees in the bathroom, but there was as much pleasure in defying him while he didn’t pay any attention to her demands as there was in simply giving in, yielding to him. “Fuck you.”

That made him laugh softly. “Well, yes. You do say that rather a lot. But not exactly what I’m looking for.” His thumb slid out of her and he brought his hand up to her face, running her own slick over her lips and then licking it away. “You taste like peaches.” He pressed his thumb into her mouth. She moaned at the sweet-sharp flavor and sucked, tongue running along the rough calluses. 

His breath was becoming ragged as she sucked and when he drew it away she smiled up at him, sly and taunting. He reached back between her legs, shifting, and before she could speak she felt the broad head of his cock nudged into position and she sucked in a sharp breath. 

The teasing, playful manner seemed to evaporate as he scooped his arm under her leg and bent it toward her chest, widening her hips. His hand closed roughly on her breast, and she looked up at him. She could see his jaw muscles clenching and his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her face. She arched her back and held his gaze, trying to grind down on him, smiling at the feel of him just pressing against her. Her lips parted and she nodded. 

The feel of him driving into her in one hard stroke dragged a cry from her throat, her body bending up toward him like a bow, eyes closed. He paused for a moment once he was seated deep, hard and twitching inside her, and she felt his breath on her cheek. “Caralyn?” 

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, his eyes wide, pupils dilated until most of the gold-green of his iris was lost. Hawke was panting, trying to buck her hips, but the weight of him was too much and between her lifted leg and pinned arms she could gain no leverage. “Please,” she gasped. 

The slow smirk that spread on his lips made her clench her pelvic muscles, trying to roll against him but she gained very little. “Please?” His eyebrow lifted. 

“You know please what, you shit. You fucking bastard.” Andraste’s weeping cunny, she wanted him to move. 

“And you were doing so much better!” His voice was low and wry against her skin as he leaned down to lick the side of her neck. It was awkward, tall as he was, but he managed to arch down enough for that. The hand on her breast dragged blunt nails across her nipple and he chuckled as she moaned. 

It was too much, feeling bent to his pleasure, her body placed where he wanted it, stretched and open, full to bursting with him, but he was just holding there like it was easy. She had a sudden spike of horror, wondering if he could literally do this all night. Fucking Grey Wardens. She would be having a talk with Anders about strategies to use against the man who had her pinned. But for tonight, Maker, she couldn’t wait anymore. 

“Alistair, please. Please just fucking fuck me.” She closed her eyes and turned her face away, giving him access to her neck where he licked and bit. When she said his name a second time, breathless and panting he drew out and snapped his hips forward brutally. She let out a keening little moan. 

“Like that, pet?” His words against the skin of her neck were maddening and she bucked again, nodding furiously. 

“Yes, please, please more. Anything you want, just don’t stop. Please.” 

“Look at me.” He drew back enough so that he could look at her eyes as they opened and she had to swallow hard several times as she met his gaze. “You have the most beautiful eyes.” He released his hold on her wrists and scooped her other leg up over his elbow, giving another hard snap of his hips as he did so. 

The sensation was a little like being torn in half, but in the best possible way, as drove into her with focused, punishing strength. Or it would be punishing, if it wasn’t exactly what she’d been begging for. He kept her knees up on his elbows as he sat back on his heels, dragging her forward and lifting her hips up just a little. The angle made her arch and pant and claw at him, and when he finally relented and pressed the heel of his hand over her clit she felt the cry that was torn from her ragged and sharp in her throat. 

It went on that way, the slide and the stretch and the fullness. Every part of her skin screaming to be touched, and eventually it seemed like he did. He made her come three times before he lowered himself down to lay full length over her, his thrusts becoming almost lazy, except she could still feel the wound coils of strength in his arms, see the sweat that beaded in his hairline, trickled across his brow furrowed in concentration. She was pretty sure she’d gone fucking insane with it rather a long time ago, though the cocking she was taking made it hard to judge minutes and moments and hours. 

She was liquid underneath him, slick and warm and open. Her hands trailed lightly over his shoulders, and when he lifted his head to look down at her she smiled at him, so warm and full, she knew she looked sloppy drunk and didn’t care. 

“Do you have another in you?” 

The words tightened the want in her gut from general to pointed, sharp, a thing she could press against. She shuddered as she tightened her cunt around him and moaned sharply at the sudden stab of pleasure in her overstimulated flesh. 

He laughed softly. “That’s a yes then?” 

“Maker, yes.” 

“Come along, Caralyn.” His pace increased, harder, erratic, painfully deep, but exactly what she wanted. “With me? Right?” 

She nodded frantically and panted as she rode hard down to meet each of his thrusts and when she began to topple over her nails dragged into his shoulders. “Alistair, now. Now, please, now.” 

There was no argument from him, as he gripped her shoulders and froze as deep as he could go, the sudden spasm and they were both lost, grinding and moaning and grasping. 

She was warm and damp with sweat and pinned under the slab of a man above her, but she wrapped her legs around his hips and _squeezed_ with all she had. He groaned into her hair and his arms scooped around her as he rolled to the side, pulling her with him. She found their faces inches apart and he was staring into her eyes. 

He pushed her damp fringe back off her forehead as he smiled at her, and she felt her eyelids blink slowly. She flushed softly and finally let them fall closed but not before she saw he wore a sated, tender expression. “You’re… amazing, Caralyn.” She could feel his murmur rumble in his chest. 

She shrugged a little and burrowed closer to him and he held very still as she nuzzled into his throat. His arms seemed uncertain around her for a moment, before tightening as if she might dart from the bed. She grimaced where he couldn’t see it, and then huffed. “I think you hit your head. Go to sleep.” 

He laughed again softly, a hand tracing her spine down to her tailbone and then back up. His lips brushed her hair as he whispered, “Oh, you’re not the boss of me anymore, missy.”

Hawke snorted softly and wriggled a little irritably at his words, but didn’t argue. Which might have been a first. She’d let him know the score later, but first she wanted to smell his sweat and sex, and avoid the world outside the bed. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten her name, but close enough. She didn’t feel like Hawke right now; she felt like Caralyn, and that was rare enough she’d take it for the minor fucking miracle it was.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are confusing dreams, cheese pies, a shovel talk, Anders wears his snarky pants, and Alistair is rather out of his depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Alistair POV chapter. Fingers crossed!

Alistair couldn’t figure out why Elissa was wearing Templar armor. While she reached forward and grabbed the plate in front of him. Telling him she was disappointed in him. The plate had several wedges of cheese on it. He wasn’t wearing pants. 

He wasn’t sure if it was his choice of snacks or his state of undress that was in question. 

Wait, it wasn’t Elissa. It was Anora, and she was wearing an Orlesian ballgown that just looked like Templar armor, only no, it didn’t. She was throwing small stinging missiles at him, tiny stickpins the head of each a tiny rampant lion. Where they stuck him blood beaded, and then dripped, slicking his skin. 

He could feel Elissa behind him, smell her, hear her laugh the merry ring that had made him love her so hard, so early in their journeys together. It was only later he’d heard the artifice in it, the cruelty it could be capable of. The blood was now black like darkspawn ichor, thick and stinging with taint. 

“Oh, Alistair, silly man. Did you think there were choices?” Was she talking about cheese? Or pants?

He turned and Liss was wearing the robes Caralyn had been wearing the first time they met, and she raised her hands. The blood from the pricks and digs of Anora’s missiles started streaming toward Elissa’s hands, a thousand tiny silk threads that she gathered up, jerked this way, that way, and Maker, the blood still inside him began to boil.

* * * * * * *

Alistair awoke sweating madly, so hot he could barely breath, and it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t being attacked by… something? The overheating was caused by the woman-shaped limpet that had attached herself to his side. Maker, she was a furnace, and in the depths of summer, the heat never really died down. 

He shifted, looking down to where her head was pillowed on his shoulder, running a finger along her cheek and pushing her hair behind her ear. It was disconcerting to look at her and think, _why, what a pleasant looking young woman, sweet as pie_ , because when her eyes were closed and her face relaxed she didn’t look like a mercenary, a leader of pirates and dwarves and fellows that glowed. She looked a little like a noble. A lot like someone he’d like to kiss, and while he wouldn’t usually assume how far that could go, now that it had, well, _gone_ , he really couldn’t think of anything else when he looked at her mouth. 

It was also quite a surprise how tenaciously she was cuddling in her sleep. The time he’d coaxed her to sleep in his bed it had been grudging even though she was a bit drunk. He would have thought her more normally of the elbows-out-no-touching variety. 

The windows were starting to show the early gray light of morning, enough to differentiate from the shadows, begin to see the red glints in her dark hair. He didn’t think he’d be able to go back to sleep. Aside from being too warm, he was bloody thirsty, and his stomach was gnawing a hole through his spine. Warden stamina meant a Warden’s stomach, he supposed and brushed his lips across her forehead. 

He gently shifted her off his chest, carefully moving her leg down onto the mattress, disentangling his arms. He was surprised that she did no more than scowl and burrow into the pillow as he sat up. He couldn’t help letting a hand skate over her hip, up her side, trailing a finger under the swell of her breast. He had to remind himself to breathe. She was beautiful, well and truly. 

Alistair had to return to the bathing chamber through her dressing room to find his clothes, and as he pulled on his trousers he paused, looking at his hands on the cloth, pulled halfway up. Cheese? Had he dreamt about Elissa and cheese? He chased after the rest of the dream, feeling unsettled by it, knowing there was more, and none of it was pleasant. Something to do with blood mages and… 

He shivered and glanced back through the door toward Caralyn’s bedroom, his gut twisting hard, having to close his eyes against the memory of her with a knife in her hand, ready to open a vein for a demon. If there was one thing he’d done right in his life, it was stopping that from happening. 

The house was quiet in the early hours of the morning, until Alistair got to the ground floor. He puzzled for a moment over his gear, cleaned and neatly stacked near the cold hearth in the receiving hall. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. She had servants, then? Yes, of course she did. Look at where she lived. He shook his head. 

There were noises and lit lamps in one of the hallways, along with the smell of delicious, buttery, savory things. The kitchen must be there, and if the Maker was benevolent, a cook he could charm out of a first breakfast, before he took a second back up to her. Was that appropriate? He was going to expire of hunger if he didn’t find something, and his childhood snatching pastries from unguarded counters, and wheedling cheese sandwiches out of the Redcliffe undercooks meant he didn’t feel out of place letting himself in among servants. 

He poked his head into the kitchen, saw two dwarves and an elf busying about the place. A large platter of small pastries were on the table near the door. His feet were taking their orders directly from his stomach apparently, because he stepped next to the table and lifted one. Still warm. 

“Are these Rivaini cheese pies?” His voice was a little reverent and he bit into one eagerly, as the older dwarf and the slender elf turned toward him in surprise. “Swrrfy,” he managed around a mouthful. 

“Warden Alistair?”

“Bodhan?” Alistair started choking on the bite, eyes watering. He definitely had flaky pastry bits in his lungs, and more on the front of his shirt where the initial gasp caused a storm of coughing that resulted in a fine spume of crumbs. It took a mug of water, a cup of tea and three more bites before he felt recovered enough to talk. 

“You remember my boy, Sandal? Sandal, say hello to Warden Alistair!” Bodhan had probably introduced Sandal to Alistair four, possibly five times since they first met, and he’d never quite sussed out whether it was for Sandal’s benefit, or his, or possibly Bodhan was just a little funny that way. 

“Hello!”

“Right, well, just Alistair now. Hello, Sandal. Bodhan. Maker’s breath, what are you doing in Kirkwall? Do you work for Caralyn?” Alistair started as a plate was placed before him with a half dozen of the little pastries by the elf, her big eyes cast down. She flinched when he thanked her. 

“Don’t mind Orana, messere. She’s still learning how things are done outside Tevinter.” Bodhan gave the girl a soft-hearted look of sympathy. Alistair foresaw a day when Bodhan introduced Orana as his daughter, a savant with pastry, the way that Sandal was a savant with enchantment. “And quite right you are. Ever since Mistress Caralyn saved my boy in the Deep Roads I wished to repay her and she was kind enough to let us stay while I work to acquit myself of that debt.” 

“Deep Roads? She went into the Deep Roads? What in the void for?”

Bodhan’s mouth opened, but he was cut off by a voice behind Alistair. “Oh, what any of us go down there for.” The blonde apostate with the stupid feathered pauldrons was standing in one of the doorways that led to a set of steps which presumably disappeared into the cellars. Did the man live in her cellars? “Fame, fortune, to die alone in the dark covered in ichor. Personally, I’ve had enough of all that, and I promise you that was the last time I’ll be swayed by pretty blue eyes begging me to ensure her safety in the depths.”

“Ye-es, I’m sure there was lots of begging and no browbeating or bullying or arm twisting at all.” Alistair smirked and took another one of the pies before him. 

That observation resulted in a half-smile and a shrug that looked suspiciously like agreement. “Bodhan, I didn’t know we’d have company this morning and if I’d--” Anders’ brown eyes narrowed. “Is the interloper eating my _brik_?” 

Orana set a second plate, which Alistair noted was filled with an entirely unfair even dozen of the little delights, on the table and dropped a slight curtsey toward Anders. He noticed also, that despite the curtsey the little elf darted a slight smile at the mage and murmured, “Oh, no, Master Anders. Yours are safe,” before scurrying off to the oven where additional trays were being rotated in and out. 

“Orana, you are a treasure. Sent straight from the Maker to be the balm on my bruised, overburdened soul.” Anders accepted tea from Bodhan and then settled across from Alistair, eyeing him with glittering brown eyes over the rim of his cup. The cup clinked a little sharply against the saucer. “So.” 

Alistair broke one of the… whatever Anders had called them… in half and twiddled part in his right hand between thumb and forefinger. “So?” He chewed meditatively on the twiddled half, trying not to watch the mage’s eyes for suspicious blueish flickers. 

“Hawke isn’t down yet? You two had a nice night? Play a lot of virile Templar and powerless apostate did you? It’s rude to leave your powerless apostate chained to the bed while you have breakfast, you know.” The mage’s lips twitched into a sly smile, but there was something incredibly sharp and hard in their depths. His grin widened until his teeth were bared as Alistair started to choke again. 

The blush that surged into his cheeks was self-reinforcing. He blushed, Anders saw it, he blushed harder, the dwarves pretended not to notice, and there it was, even more blushing! It was made worse by the fact that he felt his his groin tighten slightly at the words Anders said, even while he recoiled from them. Was it just the image of Caralyn naked and begging, as she’d been last night? He wouldn’t really want to… well, chains? No. That seemed… wrong. Didn’t it? Maker, he was going to get a bloody nose from blushing too hard. 

Alistair cleared the last of the crumbs from his lungs and took a drink before sputtering, “She was still sleeping? And besides, I don’t see how it is any of your business. Do you live here or something because she didn’t mention that. And even if I wanted to answer you I don’t even know what you’re asking.” 

Whether it was the words, or his expression, Anders’ eyes became less severe as he watched Alistair. It was Bodhan that provided some of the answer, cutting in before he could speak with a cheerful, “Mistress Caralyn has been trying to get Master Anders to move in for ages, but it seems to have finally stuck. We have the last of the furniture arranged in the room she picked for you, next to the library, messere.” 

That made Anders frown a little, but he shrugged, ruffling his feathers, literally, and then ate one of the little half-moon pies in one bite. They chewed and swallowed in silence for several minutes, until Alistair’s plate was empty, and only three remained in front of the other man. 

The silence was welcome. It allowed Alistair to get his blush under control, resolutely avoiding meeting Anders’ eyes, which never wavered from his face. However, eventually the silence became a bit too much and he sighed. “So. Grey Warden runaway then? That sounds… glamorous.” 

“Well wouldn’t you know?” Anders seemed amused by the new thread of conversation, and Alistair was grateful that he let them move away from the topic of Caralyn and whether or not she was tied to the bed, and Maker, no more thinking about that. 

Hatred of Loghain? Refusal of Anora? He was never sure how to explain to people that Elissa had tried to make him king, but when she insisted on Loghain being allowed to live and offered a place of honor among the Wardens something had broken in him. It would have been kinder to execute him than exile him. Especially now that Elissa was beckoning across the Waking Sea to call him back. “Not a runaway here. I was _exiled_. Because of my dangerous and seditious… um..”

“Love of cheese?” Anders licked the tips of his fingers after the final pastry from his plate was consumed, smiling with false innocence across the table. 

“How did you know that?” There was a note of incredulity in his voice. Had Leliana written a farcical ballad about him and cheddar? 

The mage seemed amused, though his eyes still held a hardness. “Well, as a close, personal friend of Commander Cousland, Elissa, she told me many things. Whispered them into my ear in the dead of night. Always used a little too much tongue during those breathy comuniques, but she was a Cousland. Everyone knows what kind of degenerates they are.” The hard flash in Anders’ eyes was sharp, aiming to wound, and Alistair couldn’t help the flush that crept up his cheeks or the way his hands shook slightly in anger.

“You’re a foul, mean spirited little man, aren’t you?” The anger he felt was intense but diffuse. Directionless. Angry at Anders for being rude, sure there was that. The thought of Elissa moving on with the lean mage mere months after he’d left Ferelden, while he’d been busily and pathetically pining over her for the majority of the last four years was hurtful, but it felt more like being angry at himself for ever caring what she thought. His hands clenched into fists on the top of the table as he watched Bodhan shoo Sandal and Orana out of the kitchen. 

“Does it bother you that Elissa and I were naked-friends, Templar? Imagining a filthy apostate touching your toys, which makes you a bloody hypocrite now you’ve got one of your very own, by the way.” The mage was leaning forward on the table, elbows bent and his chin cupped in his hands, still smirking, damn him. 

“I’m not a bloody Templar. I never took vows. I hated it and the Grey Wardens saved me from that, but Elissa managed to take that away from me. I don’t care if you are a mage or if you… slept with her, or whatever you did. But don’t you dare drag Caralyn into your… this… this slimy creepy... ugh. She isn’t a toy, and if you were a good friend you could stand to be nicer to someone who wants to see her happy!” Was he shouting? He was shouting. He was just letting things rolllll on out of his mouth, nevermind his brain, which wasn’t much help on the best of days. 

There was the briefest flicker of blue in the depths of Anders’ brown eyes but he snorted and shook his head as Alistair wound down. A small smile crept onto his lips and some of the sharp edge left his gaze. “No, she isn’t a toy. If you ever treat her like one, we will make sure you understand how _unjust_ that is.” He was apparently speaking for both himself and his passenger, and it made Alistair shiver. 

However, the whole conversation seemed to have got rather away from him, so he just watched Anders with a frown. The mage hopped up and poured both of them more tea, passed out more of the cheese pastries and then sat back down. Alistair felt his eyes narrow before he asked, “Are you, like some kind of crazy person?” Good, ask the plainly mad possessed apostate if he’s crazy, best idea he’d ever had. 

The feathers of Anders’ pauldrons rustled as he shrugged, and then he ran his fingers back into his hair. “Debateable. I’ve been known to drive people crazy from time to time.” He sipped at his tea, the smile in his eyes as he watched Alistair was warmer now. Err, rather warmer than he was comfortable with, maybe. 

“Is this a test? I’ve always been terrible at tests, but I feel like you’ve devised some strange rubrik that I must pass or you’ll disapprove of me to Caralyn. Probably very severely.” Alistair flaked a little of the crust off the pastry and then because they were delicious and he could probably eat them all day, popped it into his mouth. 

“Your blush is rather charming, you know. Given what Hawke has told me about your… time with her, it’s surprising.” He glanced up as Orana reemerged from the doorway she’d disappeared through with the dwarves. “It’s fine, Orana, come on in.” She shot him a grateful smile and went back to whatever baking she had paused in the middle of. “I had this image all built up of you being a shameless rake, and here you are, flustered and handsome at the kitchen table, trying not to be awkward. You even put on a shirt before you came down to raid the larder.” 

“I… er. Yes. Well, manners were something the Sisters had to beat into me after the dogs bollocksed up my earliest education.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his neck and then sat forward again. Now he was just fidgeting. 

“Raised by dogs?” 

“Huge ones. Slobbery. From the Anderfels. No common sense there, not like mabari.” It was an old line, an easy joke to fall into. 

“I’m not much of a dog person.” Anders looked pensively down into his cup, before raising his eyes and meeting Alistair’s gaze. “Elissa gave me a kitten once upon a time. Took him away again too. She would do that, give us something, promise us something we wanted and then use it as leverage to keep us in line.” He rolled his shoulders, and for a moment Alistair could see a weary, haunted man underneath his smirking and his needling and that felt like a bit of a gift, a vulnerability that he could relate to. 

“She took your cat away from you?” Alistair didn’t even try to sound surprised. 

“Ser Pounce-a-lot. Yes. Said he made me soft. Bit of a bitch, your Elissa. And that bit about sleeping with her, that was a lie. It was Oghren who used to tell a story about you and cheese. Lewd, as you might well imagine.” He grimaced and gave an exaggerated shiver. 

Alistair blinked at the mention of Oghren, nose wrinkling, and shook his head, commenting instead on Elissa. “Oh, well if she’s mine perhaps I can sell her, or give her away or something.” 

“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever told about Pounce that hasn’t even blinked at his name.” He fell silent for a moment before adding, “It’s funny how inverse they are.” Anders quirked an eyebrow and glanced toward the ceiling. 

“Sorry?” 

“Elissa was all sweetness and laughter on the outside but she was one of the most ruthless people I’ve ever known. And I’ve met some tremendously terrifying people.” He sipped his tea. 

“Right, well hindsight and all that.” Alistair was still a bit puzzled. 

“Don’t you find Hawke has the opposite problem?” 

“I…” He thought about Caralyn, with all her showy anger and filthy mouth, venom and rage wrapped around a center of… warmth. She had been so warm last night. He frowned at his hands before he looked back up at Anders. 

“Come on. Don’t look at me like you haven’t seen it. She is phenomenally generous, fiercely protective, and much to my continual sorrow, loyal to the point of madness.” He sighed again and shook his head, pieces of his hair falling out of the tie and into his eyes. “She doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation.” 

There was so much tenderness in the mage’s tone when he spoke of Caralyn that Alistair felt a little nauseas. “Are you sure you’re not in love with her?” He tried to say it lightly, sardonic or dry, affable, a bit dim, any of the deflecting tactics he’d ever used getting tangled up and he landed on either mournful or suspicious, he wasn’t sure which. 

The flicker of blue in his eyes was back as Anders answered. “We cherish Caralyn Hawke’s friendship.” He cleared his throat, frowning. The strange echoing that had entered his voice for just a moment was gone when he muttered, “Thanks for that, Justice.” He sighed and shook his head while Alistair met his eyes. “Well, what he said. But just friends.” He gave an offhand shrug and a quirked eyebrow. “Besides, these days I’d be looking for a bit more _man_ handling than she’s be able to provide.” 

“This is a very odd conversation for first thing in the morning.” Alistair cleared his throat, trying not to squirm, and then glanced toward the doorway. Caralyn’s mad possessed apostate best friend was flirting with him, he was fairly sure, and that was all kinds of wrong. “Does she usually sleep in this late?” 

“Not lately, no. But I assume you wore her out.” The sly smile was back. Alistair thought it was a bit hateful, that smile. “Did she tell you to wake her for breakfast or tea?” 

“No. As I said, she was sleeping. She didn’t say anything.” 

“She didn’t wake up at all?” 

Alistair shook his head, disliking the cool tone that the mage had lapsed into. “No, I didn’t want to disturb her.” 

“You left her up there alone. To wake up alone. Do you… are you stupid? Maker’s balls, Alistair.” His name in the mage’s mouth startled him. It implied a familiarity, a line of attention or communication with him instead of reflected off of Caralyn like an angled mirror. “Get your ass back up there.” 

He wasn’t sure why it was so essential that he get back upstairs to her bedroom before she woke, but he stood, a glimmer of worry sparking in him. Would she think he’d run out? Not after all that had gone on last night, surely? 

He opened his mouth, some protest forming and Anders narrowed his eyes before interrupting. “No, I’m not going to explain because it’s hard for her, and personal, and she deserves better than continual, pathological loneliness. I can only do so much. So go.” 

Alistair chewed on his lip for just a moment before he nodded and went. This was definitely the strangest morning he’d had in a while. Possibly stranger than the last time he and Caralyn had spent the night together. Only just, and only because that morning hadn’t involved possessed apostates or dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brik are a Northern African pastry, similar to a samosa that are often filled with cheese. My cobbled together Rivain head-canon is a little Roma, a little Moorish, and a little bit Arabian Nights. So, they have brik, and they are delicious. ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke struggles to let herself feel happy while Alistair and Anders manage to convince her to try.

It was cold. Hawke wasn’t expecting that in the height of summer, especially since she’d woken several times in the night to find herself draped on, nestled against, or curled around Alistair, still damp with sweat and nearly feverish with heat. Oddly, it hadn’t bothered her. Now though, now she was cold. Well, it wasn’t actually, objectively cold, but the sweat on her skin had cooled and the sheet that was draped over her lower legs wasn’t doing a fucking thing for the sudden flash of goosebumps on her arms. 

She flung a hand out and as she reached for him she felt unsettled, really damn unsettled, because he was both not there, and she had expected him to be _right there_. 

She sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover her chest, as if there was someone there to see her. There was the crash of sensation, scalp prickling behind her ears and vaguely nauseous, that the Orlesians called _deja vu_. Already seen. She’d been here before and it had been a real nugfucker of a time on first go. 

This time there was no fire in the hearth, it was not the middle of the night, and there was no pacing elf looking like she’d murdered every hope he’d ever had of smiling right in front of him. But it was her, alone in the bed, feeling disquiet and revoltingly sad that she was alone. She balled her hand into a fist and bonked it hard against her forehead three times, trying to clear the insipid bullshit that was welling up in her. 

Why had he left? Had she done something wrong? Would he come back? 

But worse than not having the answers to those questions was the sense of loss that spurred asking them in the first place. Oh sure, she could be as ridiculous as she wanted with the man, but she drew the fucking line at having those sorts of doubts and worries assail her again. That was why she’d tried to drown out thoughts of Fenris with the thick cock of a stranger in the alley in the first place. She was not going to go snivelly because he’d slipped out the door while she slept. 

But really, had she done something wrong?

“Fuck you, Hawke. Fuck that. Get the fuck out of bed and stop acting like a shitty little Templar the first time somebody accidentally touches his cock and goes all cross-eyed with…” Her words trailed off, inarticulate frustration revolting in her throat instead of saying the word that came next. She swallowed, mouth sour. She could just go back to sleep. She sighed, rolled off the bed and padded to the bathing chamber. 

At least she still had dwarven plumbing. She didn’t draw a full bath, though Maker knew she could use one to deal with the soreness in her muscles if nothing else. Instead she washed quickly at the basin, brushed her hair with brutal strokes and then braided it as she usually did. 

His clothes were gone. Void fucking dammit, she was not looking for his clothes on the floor where they’d left them! She already knew he was up and out, and the only reason not to wake her was if he didn’t want to be seen leaving like the asshole (what was larger than a Qunari dreadnaught?) that he… No, that wasn’t kind. 

She’d ditched him, more than once, angry and skittish, and Maker, she probably deserved this, even if it felt like shit to realize that on top of actually feeling… bereft. 

She rinsed her mouth and spit into the basin again, grimacing. Bereft. Fuck. 

To feel bereft one had to be bereaved. Hawke stared narrow-eyed at her reflection in the looking glass hung above her dressing table. She was bereaved. It had been mere weeks since her mother was murdered and here she was sighing after a man. 

The man she’d been with the morning her mother had been kidnapped. She jerked the wardrobe open, gritting her teeth, swallowing against the roiling selfishness that threatened to swell up her throat and choke her to death. 

It had been nice, though, to be distracted. She pulled out a set of robes that did not scream mage, not exactly. Reinforced with leather straps and buckles, with a high collar and thigh-length gambeson that fastened with silver toggles along the left side. It was severe, and dark, and usually meant she was expecting bloodshed. Which, given the request from the Viscount, something else about the Qunari, well… she needed to pull her head out of her own ass and pick the job back up. No one else in the city seemed to be either capable or inclined and there was always death, more death, more horrible deaths waiting, and she could stop them if she just paid more attention, worked harder, made the difficult choices and stopped thinking about her own pleasure. 

There was also the looming possibility that she had a Fereldan nobleman to have deported, jailed, or executed, depending on the severity of the threat he made. She didn’t even dwell on the motivation of that particular task, it was just on the mental list of things to be done. 

She jerked her smalls on and fastened her breastband before she carried the armor set to the bedroom and laid the different pieces out on the bed. Regular mage robes were easier. Not so many fucking pieces, not so many blighted buckles. 

As she untangled the the undershirt and sleeves from the trousers, superfluous belts, and strapping, she ran through her roster. Who? Qunari usually meant Fenris, but Maker, that was an annoying thought right now. Anders had been unrelentingly busy the past few days, so she’d leave him to the clinic if he didn’t insist on coming. Was he downstairs yet? Had he seen Alistair slip out? That would be fucking fantastic. This was his fault, all of his pointed looks and prodding, and now she could explain to him that somehow it was a big fucking mistake. 

She clenched her hands into fists to stop them shaking. That was what she was afraid of, wasn’t it? That he was going to tell her it was a mistake, that she’d misjudged all of it, but it was the fear that made her angry. She didn’t want these fucking feelings that swarmed her unexpectedly. “It shouldn’t fucking matter.” 

There was a light tap on the door and before she could shout at whoever it was to leave her the fuck alone it creaked open. She had her head halfway into the undershirt, tugging it down as she muttered, “I didn’t say come in, Anders, and just because I let you fucking live here doesn’t mean I want you wandering into my bedroom and if you tell Isabela what my ass looks like without any pants on I will set your feathers on fire and you won’t ever get that smell out of your hair.” She jerked down, her head popping through the neckhole as she settled the snug linen garment. 

“Well, she’ll never hear it from me, but it is a lovely one.” 

She stiffened at Alistair’s voice, and the relief that she felt only wound the frustration in her stomach tighter. So selfish. She was being so fucking selfish. “I figured you’d gone.” 

She picked up the trousers and bent over to begin pulling them on, when she felt his hands on her waist, thumbs resting on either side of her spine. She straightened immediately, rigid as he pulled her back into his chest and leaned down to kiss her neck. “Well I didn’t. Leave, I mean. Hadn’t? Haven’t. Hmm. Regardless, I’m here, still.” His mouth was warm on her skin as he rambled, arms sliding around her middle. 

She shrugged, trying to shift away from him, but he squeezed her more tightly. “Just stop.” 

His arms immediately loosened and he straightened. “I didn’t mean… did you think that…” He moved his hands to her shoulders and sighed. “Anders was right. I am an idiot.” 

“Well he’d know. He’s the resident expert.” She turned to look up at him, lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you still here?” The emphasis was wrong, and instead of it coming out as a an honest query it sounded like an accusation. 

He blinked at her and then raised an eyebrow. “Oh is it going to be like that? Lovely! I was worried after last night you might have forgotten how to be mean to people. What a relief.” He ran his hand through his hair before frowning down at her, corner of his mouth stretched in distaste. 

Hawke opened her mouth and then snapped it shut, looking beyond Alistair, to a point on the wall behind him. What was she doing? Why was this so fucking hard? Finally she sighed. “Well, at least you don’t have the wrong idea about who the fuck I am.” She darted a glance at his face and saw his eyes had gone soft and sad. She turned away and began pulling her trousers on. 

The broad weight of his hand rested on the small of her back as she straightened, tuggng the waist band over her hips. She busied herself lacing them, trying to ignore the way her heart beat harder when he touched her, while at the same time her fear and frustration began to melt. He placed his other hand gently under her chin, thumb resting just under her lower lip and tipped her face up. “I have to admit you give some mixed messages, but I think I’m starting to understand.” 

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him, studying his face, taking in the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows that had created a crease there. There were traces of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, but they were faded, as if not used very often anymore. As she watched him silently he pressed her closer and leaned down to kiss her softly on the lips, not demanding or fierce, just… sweet. When he straightened he gave her a quiet, thoughtful smile. 

“Why are you smiling at me?” Her voice threatened to quaver, so the sentence ended a little roughly. 

“Maker, Caralyn. You… you have no idea? I am smiling because I’m looking at you, because you’re beautiful and fierce, and I’m a little bit scared of you, which might be a mental problem I haven’t ever examined too closely, but there it is.” He ran his thumb along the bottom edge of her lower lip. “I don’t know what to say to make this easy, and I’m not sure that I’d want to because it feels worth it when you crack and you smile back. But I am sorry that after how amazing last night was I let you wake up alone. I’m still here because I want to be here, and you shouldn’t be alone unless that’s what you want?” 

Hawke set her jaw against the welling thickness in her throat, trying not to glare at him, because that wasn’t what she wanted, but she also really did not want to fucking cry in front of him. She swallowed, shaking her head and looking away. “I’m glad you stayed.” 

The soft laugh that he gave at her clipped mutter made her glare up at him for just a moment but her eyes widened when he descended to kiss her again, this time with conviction and insistence. He pressed his lips over hers, tipping her head back as he nudged her mouth open and lingered in it, drawing her out and making her go soft and silly. She realized she was leaning against him, one arm up over his shoulder, hand on the back of his neck, and the hand on her back pressed her closer. She went up onto her tiptoes to shift the momentum of the kiss, kissing him back, harder, almost bruising. When she sank back down, breaking away from him, he smiled at her and she felt herself smiling back, crooked and from beneath her brows. 

“So, you look like you’re arming for war. Have some battles to fight this morning?” He inclined his head at the reinforced half-robe spread on the bed. 

She pursed her lips, ducking her head and drawing away so that she could pull the gambeson on. His hands assisting her with the straps and cinches on the sides startled her, but she let him help. “I have to see the Viscount about something to do with the fucking Arishok. Every time I get called up to the Keep, by the end of the day I find myself knee-deep in Tal Vashoth innards or poison gas, or my favorite, illiterate Lowtowners that the Chantry has whipped up into religious fervor trying to stab me with kitchen cutlery.” Her fingers fastened the toggles that closed the front flap as he worked helped situate the belts that strapped across the hips. “I figured I’d go ready to get bloody.” 

“Hmm. Have you ever tried a scenario that didn’t involve lightning bolts and stabbing? Like a picnic? I think a picnic sounds lovely.” 

She rolled her eyes at him as she buckled the bracers on. “I like lightning bolts and stabbing.” 

“Yes, of course you do. Very fierce. But everybody likes a picnic. Even Qunari. Even Caralyn Hawke.” He was smiling lopsidedly at her. 

She snorted as he adjusted the collar of her armor and then tilted his head as he looked her over. “I don’t have time for picnics. Or…” She waved her hand vaguely around her bedroom, trying to think of words that wouldn’t seem dismissive. “...dallying. So if you’re coming, get your shit sorted while I go see if Anders is about.” 

Alistair blinked at her and then his smile broke broadly. “You want me to follow you around solving the problems of Kirkwall today?” 

“Well if you’re going to be hanging about I’m going to put you to work. Besides, there’s still that nugshit with that Bann, and until I sort him right the fuck out of town, I’d feel better if you…” She trailed off, rolling her shoulders. 

“If I what?” His eyes were fucking gleaming as he grinned at her, seemingly delighted with the turn this had taken. 

“If you were where I could see you, and not dead or stuffed in a barrel and carried off. Not that you’d fit in a fucking barrel, but you know what? I just don’t want anything to happen to you if I can stop it.” She winced as she heard her voice grow sharp, but she meant it. As she’d claimed last night, he was one of hers, and she wasn’t going to let anything happen to him. 

For his part he didn’t seem offended. Instead his grin softened to something less amused and he touched her cheek gently. “If you want me with you, that’s where I’ll be.” 

“Meet me in the entry hall when you’re ready.” She gripped his hand in a brief, hard squeeze and then walked briskly from the room. Maker’s balls, she was in trouble. She couldn’t even tell anymore whether or not she was being selfish or stupid. Things used to be easy. She shook her head as she trotted down the stairs and toward the kitchen. That was a convenient lie, because really, Hawke couldn’t recall any point in her life that had been easy or safe. 

But Alistair? Liking him was easy. Letting herself be likeable? That might be fucking impossible. She would try, though. 

The kitchen smelled amazing, as it had every morning since Orana had come to live with them. Anders was still seated at the kitchen table with a cup of tea cradled in one hand and a book opened before him. Bodhan and Sandal seemed to be elsewhere and Orana was kneading bread on the other end of the scrubbed table from where Anders sat. 

Hawke stepped through the doorway, shaking her head at Orana when the girl started to straighten from her task. “I’ll just steal some of Anders’ tea, Orana. Don’t worry about it. Did he eat all the cheese pies?” 

Anders startled at the sound of her voice and then turned, his gaze darting behind her and then back to her face. He looked a little apprehensive for a moment as he watched her before saying airily, “I didn’t, but your cumbersomely large lover certainly tried.” 

“Oh, Anders, don’t be catty just because you’re jealous of the size of his cock.” Hawke immediately winced when Orana let out a little squeak and turned pink. 

The look on Anders face was almost worth it, disgruntled and impressed, pleased and amused all at once. “That good?” 

She moved over to his chair and tugged his hair very gently, feeling herself blush and not really caring for once. For a moment she considered thanking him for making her go find Alistair last night, but the odd waves of warmth she still struggled to accept were too new for an easy breakfast-table conversation. Instead she ran her fingers through the hair at his nape where it was too short to tie back and smiled when he arched his neck as his eyes closed. “Are you busy in the clinic today?” 

The pleased hum that had started in Anders’ throat trailed off into a soft groan. “I’ve got some help for the morning, but I’ll need to go down for new patients this afternoon. Unless you need me desperately for something else?” He sounded almost hopeful. 

“The Viscount today. Probably another Qunari problem. Which might be more tedious than treating the victims of the summer shitstorm.” 

“That is revolting, Cara. Don’t ever say that again.” He grimaced at her, but subsided again when her hand continued petting. “I’ll pass on the Keep, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“That figures. You’re a terrible best friend, Anders.” 

“You are a scoundrel and a liar, Caralyn Hawke. I happen to know for a fact that I am the best best friend because I managed to get you back in that big lug’s pants--” 

“He has a name.” 

“--and you aren’t ranting or biting this morning, and that means that _Alistair_ must have acquitted himself so admirably you forgave him for coming down for breakfast without you.” 

Hawke felt the heat returning to her cheeks. “Shut up.” 

“Cara, my love, you are welcome.” He refilled his mug from the teapot on the table and then handed it to her, grinning, amber eyes gleaming. 

She took the tea with a glare and took a drink to keep herself from smiling. Fucking void, she wanted to grin like an idiot. Like the idiot sitting at her kitchen table. After a second gulp of tea she set the cup back in Anders hand. “I have to go. I’ll check on you later.” 

Anders set the cup down and stood, tugging her close for a hard hug and kissing her temple. “I’m glad for you, sweetheart. You deserve it.” 

Normally that sort of thing would have Hawke bristling and shoving, but instead she leaned into him briefly, then shrugged out of his arms. “You are the softest fucking touch, Anders.”

“I love you too. Be good, don’t set anyone on fire.” 

She rolled her eyes and left without answering. They both knew she couldn’t promise either of those things, but it didn’t hurt Hawke to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. Caralyn wasn't as demanding this week as other kink meme prompts. This is a little fillerish, with morning-after anxiety. I'm hopeful that the next chapters will have things moving forward toward the end of Act II.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke calls in a favor, there's always something wrong at the Bone Pit, and everybody goes for a nice walk outside the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys: For anyone who read the Chapter 17 that I posted on April 1st, I took it down because it didn't flow well from the previous chapter. The events in the original Chapter 17 haven't happened yet, and I needed to do some additional work to sell those events without so much exposition in front of it. 
> 
> Please forgive me for the jarring redaction. This chapter follows directly from Hawke's morning-after with Alistair and her brief conversation with Anders as described in Chapter 16. 
> 
> Downside: Plot and Politics!
> 
> Upside: Party banter!

The trip to the Viscount’s Keep was uneventful. Alistair knew how to keep his eyes up as he kept pace with Hawke, enough space between them that neither of their weapons would be hampered if trouble came. Not that she was expecting any particular trouble today. Not in Hightown, in broad daylight before noon. But it was good to know what his instincts were if she was going to let him follow her around, which meant, eventually, into trouble. 

As they climbed the steps before the Keep he glanced at her. “So, you keep making insinuations that Teagan is going to try to hurt me. Do you feel like explaining that now?” 

She paused on one of the broad landings midway in the climb and turned to look up at him. “You saw the ratty hired men he had with him last night?” 

“Yes? They really didn’t seem scary.” 

“Well, they weren’t going to try to sit on you until you gave up. Teagan had signalled them to follow you and one of them was definitely carrying poisons. I think they mean to get you out of the city one way or the other.” She shrugged, pretending to nonchalance and not feeling it at all. “He’s supposed to take you back to Denerim, isn’t he?” 

“The Queen and the Warden Commander are expecting me to come home because they called me. But I’m not going to have anything to do with either of them and I told him that. Teagan was angry, made some insinuations, did a little pleading. Something about Anora blocking his succession as Eamon’s heir since the Arldom is… you really don’t care about Fereldan politics.” He grinned a little when she rolled her eyes and started back up the steps. 

“Why do they want you back?” 

“To chop off my head, probably. I’m told there’s always the danger someone will start a rebellion in my name. I repudiated my claim to Maric’s throne but you know how powerful people are. Always worried that someone is going to get handsy with their things.” He nodded absently to the guard who allowed them into the Keep. “Teagan said it was an honor, and something about a pardon. Honestly, I stopped listening.” 

“So you don’t think it has anything to do with you being a Warden?” Hawke paused to eye the queue of nobles who were waiting for the chance at the private audience with the Viscount. How long they waited was about influence and favor, and had nothing to do with who got there first. Cutting in line and watching them scowl always made Hawke happy. 

“I don’t think Anora or Teagan would be involved if it did.” 

“Then why is the Warden-Commander?” 

“Well, she’s a Cousland, and she kept Anora on her throne. And an Arlessa, I guess. It isn’t supposed to be done that way, but she’s neck deep in the politics of the whole country at this point.” He watched her as she studied the room and touched her arm lightly when she frowned. “Are you worried she’s going to try to haul me back to the Wardens and feed me to darkspawn?”

“Does that seem like something I’d worry about?” She’d spotted the possibly-soon-to-be-belated Bann Teagan in the corral of nobles hoping for audience and that made her smile, just a little.

“Well, you are currently harboring two fugitive wardens, so maybe?” 

“Three, technically. If you count Justice.” Which Hawke did, oddly, even though she’d never known him separate from Anders. It should give her pause, the idea of her “harboring” Anders and Alistair, but… really she fucking harbored all over the place. Runaway slaves, apostates, a fucking blood mage and an abomination, a pirate on the run from an Antivan slaver. She was surprised she hadn’t managed to piss off a king or queen or emperor or something before this. She settled her shoulders and led Alistair up the steps to the Seneschal’s office. 

Bran was a shithead, but they understood each other. That meant she was rude and he was slimy and they both did the jobs that the Viscount told them to do. When he looked up from his desk to see her in the open doorway he stood almost immediately. “Lady Amell.”

The expression he wore was pointed. This was the opposite of condolences about her mother’s death, it was just pointing out her loss with her upgraded title. She reached for cold instead of exploding all over him. “Hawke will do.” 

He arched an eyebrow at her but inclined his head. “We had started to worry you hadn’t received the summons.” 

“Well it wasn’t exactly specific. It said my convenience. This was convenient.” She crooked her finger at him and he looked irritated but joined her at the doorway. When he glanced up at Alistair she declined to introduce them and instead pointed toward Teagan who had a stiff, outraged posture as he noticed her. “That is Bann Teagan Guerrin of Ferelden.” 

“I’ve had the pleasure.” Bran’s tone was dry. 

“He’s leaving town.” 

Bran’s eyebrows rose. “That didn’t seem to be his intention when he issued a request for an audience this morning.” 

“I know that you and the Viscount want me to talk to the Arishok again. And I will, but not if that grasping little fucker is still here.” Hawke felt Alistair shift behind her, and she cleared her throat. Cold, calm, remember? 

“He’s requested an extradition.” Bran’s eyes flicked up to Alistair again, too fucking bland to be anything but curious. 

“Well, he’s getting a deporting.” Teagan’s face was slowly becoming ruddy as they watched him, his expression growing hostile and narrow. She hadn’t bothered to whisper, and it was possible that he had heard them discussing him. When she turned her gaze to the Seneschal he was watching the bann with the faintest moue of distaste. Fereldans were still viewed as refuse in Kirkwall, apparently even the noble ones. 

Finally Bran nodded. “Very good, messere. The Viscount will see you now.” He gestured her toward the Viscount’s office, and announced her. 

The meeting itself was brief and irritating. Saemus Dumar had gone and converted to the Qun. Not something Hawke had a taste for, but if his berk of a father hadn’t seen that coming he was more of a fucking moron than she’d thought. And she was supposed to try to talk him out of it? 

Maker. When she led Alistair from the office she slowed as she passed Teagan, finally coming to a halt. She canted her head a little, pursing her lips consideringly as she looked at him. Alistair was watching her, trying to look impassive, but mostly looking a little discomfited. Possiply dyspetic.

Hawke just rocked back on her heels and smiled slowly, watching the older man’s face turn redder as he got restless with her scrutiny, until he finally spat, “What in the void are you looking at, woman?” 

“Nothing.” She sauntered slowly by him, speaking quietly. “Not one fucking thing.” That seemed to unnerve him further, and he sputtered but she didn’t pause to listen to anything else. 

Once they exited the Keep, Alistair grabbed her elbow. “You aren’t planning on murdering anybody on my behalf or anything, are you? It sounds flattering, I guess, right up until I catch you covered in blood and cackling my name.” 

He could drag eyerolls out of her almost effortlessly. “No. If I was planning to murder him he would already be floating in the harbor down by the tar pits.” She snorted when Alistair suddenly averted his eyes. “You still owe me for that, you know.” 

“I owe you… for what exactly?”

She started skipping down the steps, a light bounce in her step. “I really wanted to look Meeran in the eyes before I gouged them out with an icicle. And you kind of upset that plan.” 

“Ah, well, there were circumstances.” He was actually blushing faintly, his ears slightly pink. 

“Did those circumstances involve not wanting to get murdered by the mercenary captain you secretly double-crossed?” 

He shrugged helplessly. “Well, it was all to preserve the life of my mysterious apostate lover.” 

That drew her up short for a moment, prickles of warmth running over her shoulders and down her spine. She shot a sidelong glance at him to find him grinning at her, one eyebrow lifted. He started to reach for her cheek and she shook her head while looking at the sky. “Maker’s balls. No wonder you both washed out of the Wardens. The softest fucking touches.” She batted his hand away and continued across the square. 

They didn’t make it to the Qunari compound that day. When Hubert stopped her as she crossed the Hightown Market, demanding that she address the whining of the Bone Pit miners about some infestation or another she had sighed and pressed a hand to her head and then nodded, yes fine, shut the fuck up with that Orlesian accent. 

If Saemus Dumar was holed up in the Qunari compound, bowing and submitting to the Qun or whatever the fuck being a viddathari meant, he would be fine. He would fucking keep but if the miners that she somehow had become responsible for were being chewed on by baby dragons or deepstalkers or giant, talking, man-eating mushrooms, well that seemed pressing, and something she would need help with. 

Two hours and a few trips between Hightown and Darktown with a side-jaunt to the Hanged Man later, she found herself scowling at the road to the mine with Anders, Alistair, Varric, and Merrill, waiting on Isabela. She could see the expression on Anders face, looking back toward the city gates, go lopsided, caught between humor and something approaching panic. When she followed her gaze she saw why. The fucking pirate was swaying up the path, poking and cajoling Fenris of all fucking people in front of her. 

Perfect. This was perfect like bronto ball soup was perfect. Perfect in its fucking misery. She turned and stalked up the path, the little party trailing along behind her in a bedraggled line, and no one willing to get closer to her, not while lightning flickered around the fists she was clenching at her sides. 

It was Merrill who broke the silence, which shouldn’t have surprised anyone. “You’re tall, aren’t you?” 

She felt her shoulders tighten as Alistair answered, sounding a little confused at the sudden address. “Er, yes?” 

“Though it’s relative, isnt it? I mean, you’re tall compared to me, but not compared to the Qunari who live down by the docks. Are all Qunari the same height? It seems that way from down here, but not all humans are the same height, nor elves.” 

“I’ve really known only one Qunari, and he was tall. Maybe if we asked nicely we could get them all to line up and compare heights. Shortest to tallest?” Hawke smiled at Alistair’s droll tone, then forced her expression back to a scowl. 

“Oh, do you think they would?” Merrill’s voice was delighted. “I think the Arishok is the tallest, but that might just be his horns. He has enormous horns! Did your Qunari friend have big horns?” 

“I, well, I don’t know that I’d call Sten a friend, exactly. But no, he didn’t have horns at all.” 

“Can they be Qunari if they don’t have horns?” Merrill hmmed softly before continuing. “Fenris, you know about Qunari, don’t you? What does it mean if they don’t have horns? That saarebas that Hawke tried to free had his horns cut off, didn’t he?” 

“I have little interest in discussing Qunari customs with you, witch.” Well, Fenris sounded about as pleased to be here as she was to be ambushed by his presence. Fucking pirate. Hawke glanced back over her shoulder to see Isabela smirking as she kept pace with Fenris, her eyes sparkling as she met Hawke’s gaze, full of mischief. 

When she turned back around she was surprised by Varric’s appearance at her elbow and she narrowed her eyes at the slight smile that played on his mouth. “What do you want, Varric?” 

“Hawke, honey, you know what I want. A story. It’s always a story.” He glanced over his shoulder where Merrill and Isabela were now chattering about horns, Merrill not even glancing up as the innuendo Isabela was tossing went sailing over her head. “Any new international incidents this morning?” 

Maker save her from busybody dwarves. “Not that I’m aware of.” 

“So you weren’t at the Keep this morning threatening your betters?” Varric’s smile was crooked as he scanned the landscape ahead of them. 

It was going to be one of those converstations. Hawke tried not to grit her teeth. “You asked for new international incidents. That was the same international incident.” 

“Well that’s a start, but it wouldn’t kill you to throw me a detail or two.” 

“The details are boring.” She never knew exactly what Varric wanted from her in these situations. He knew she hated talking to him about politics and her own tendencies to act like a bronto in a ballroom regarding them.

“Twisting the Viscount’s arm to get an emissary from the Queen of Ferelden deported is boring?” She wasn’t sure whether he sounded impressed or disapproving.

“Very fucking boring. And it sounds like you already have your damn details.” 

Varric let out a lingering sigh. “That’s a hell of a favor to call in, Hawke. I hope he’s worth the trouble.” 

That made Hawke miss a step, and she shot a glance over her shoulder to where Alistair was flushing furiously at whatever tale Isabela was weaving. The hand gestures she could see seemed to indicate the topic was still the size of Qunari horns or cocks, or something. Merrill was looking flummoxed, Fenris disgusted, and Anders was almost wheezing with laughter. Alistair saw her looking back at them immediately and met her eyes. His mouth broke into a smile that shot warmth right through her despite the blush he was currently struggling with. Hawke wrenched her eyes back to the path ahead, clearing her throat. 

“Well, I guess that answers that.” Varric’s tone was knowing and a little smug. “I did some checking into the guy’s goons. They’re local, except for the one you sent to dreamland. I couldn’t find piss on him. The other two are small-time muscle, not good enough to run Coterie full time.” 

“So nothing to worry about then.” 

“Well, those two, no. I’m still looking into other rumors, and if Elissa Cousland is involved, you might have stepped in some shit.” He rubbed his fingers alongside his jaw. “But I know how you love tracking it all over my nice clean floors, so it shouldn’t surprise me.” 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to him, Varric.” Hawke pushed her bangs up off her forehead giving them a sharp tug, and fell silent. This was so fucking complicated. She could feel eyes on her back, maybe more than one pair, but she refused to look again. 

“Hey, I’d say we all owe him one after his little intervention between you and the forces of darkness.” He shook his head slowly. “But I don’t think throwing this Bann Teagan out of town before we know the score… well it isn’t the most diplomatic solution.” 

“Fuck diplomatic solutions. I’m not losing him. I’d say the same fucking thing about any of you. They don’t get to come here and take the people I-- just no. No, Varric. It doesn’t matter what they fucking want him for, whether it’s to execute him, or make him go back to the Wardens, or marry the fucking Queen and fill her up with royal babies, if he doesn’t want to go he’s not fucking going. And I _will_ call in favors if I need to.” Her voice had risen and silence had fallen behind her, and she had to keep very firm grasp on herself not to turn and look back at them again. 

Varric sighed heavily, the way he did when he was disappointed with her lack of subtlety and he shook his head again. “Have it your way, Hawke. I’m just saying there might be a way to resolve this that doesn’t involve it escalating all the way to decapitations.” 

“You always say that, but I’ve never seen it.” 

“Hawke, honey, I think you have yourself to thank for that.” He gave her arm a pat and dropped back to the larger group, starting up a tale in the awkward silence that had fallen in the wake of her outburst. It was something ridiculous and Orlesian about knights sworn to hopeless causes and their tragic ends. 

Fucking dwarf. He was right. And she’d only have herself to thank, to blame, if this went balls-up like everything else in her life. Sighing, she quickened her pace, putting enough distance between her and Varric’s voice that she didn’t have to learn anything from his fucking parable about hubris and pride. She had plenty of that happening right in her own head, thanks. She’d already lost plenty to her hubris and pride. Bethany dead, Carver a Templar, her mother… she flinched away from that. She’d lost Fenris’ trust, Anders was always just two Templars shy of righteous self-immolation, Merrill was going to fall into that fucking mirror one of these days and never come out… 

Varric was right, and she should let him help, but it had always come down to her, and even though she trusted him he worked in ways she didn’t know. Violence wasn’t tidy, but it was what she was good at. So… the Bone Pit. Even if it was sentient, carnivorous mushrooms, this was a problem she could solve. Tomorrow she would worry about Saemus Dumar. After that, she’d get Varric’s help with Teagan Guerrin. It would work out. 

She huffed a soft laugh. The law of averages said it had to one of these times at least. Maybe this would be the one. If she believed in the Maker she would pray for it. Maybe she should pray to Merrill’s Dread Wolf instead. He seemed to be the one that nipped at her heels these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who commented on the original Chapter 17 before I took it down: I really appreciated the input, and I'm sorry I didn't respond before I pulled the chapter. Writing serialized fiction is really weird, and I promise to try not to redact anything I have already posted in the future. I still intend for those events to happen, but the chapter will be rewritten/reorganized to accommodate the new intervening chapters I'm working on. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are large spiders, bigger spiders, and one fucking enormous spider. So, spiders. Also, Hawke gets chomped on and she and Fenris have a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, anyone want another chapter? 
> 
> This one involves combat, spider guts, and one flesh wound with a side of poison. 
> 
> I love Fenris, I do, and I don't want to bag on him in this fic. I do think there is no way he and Caralyn have any way of talking to each other like reasonable people at this point, so yes they will be nasty to each other.

The Bone Pit was always a clusterfuck. Hawke hated it. She hated that she’d been manipulated into claiming partial ownership of it, she hated that no one reputable would buy her share, she hated the dead bodies of the poor bastards who worked it only to be eaten by giant fucking spiders in the dark. 

She scrabbled sideways and fell prone as she tripped over a disarticulated spider leg, letting out a wheeze as she winded herself. The spider she was staring at was something that belonged in the fucking Deep Roads. No, only in nightmares about the Deep Roads. Maybe if the Deep Roads had nightmares they would be about this spider? 

It wouldn’t have fit inside the common room of the Hanged Man. It would have looked cramped in the nave of the Chantry. The thing was fucking enormous and as she pulled herself to her feet, watching Alistair catch another stabbing lunge of its fangs on his shield, she considered actually caving in the whole damn mine when they were done and clear. How could this be worth it? 

There were smaller spiders, dainty little shits by comparison, swarming down the wall to her right, each of them somewhere between the size of a mabari and a bear and clacking their mandibles in a way that made her skin want to crawl straight off her body. She drew herself up, raising her arms above her head and calling lightning into the midst of the clump, channeling bolt after bolt, a baker’s dozen of the smaller of the spiders popping and sizzling as they were struck. 

Which meant the half dozen larger ones were all focused on her now. They were slow, crackles of lightning buzzing and sparking off their chiton, but the charge that impeded them wouldn’t last long. Anders was on the other side of the cavern, weaving the complicated threads of energy that would boost everyone’s reaction times. Merrill was sending clumps of stone jutting into the legs of the monster in the center of the room, trying to snap the joints and slow it. Fenris and Isabela were engaged in a complicated dance, avoiding the legs as they struck and stepped, trying to stab and slash the underside of the thorax. Varric had found a ledge that allowed him to aim Bianca’s shots at the eyes.

How did Hawke get stuck with all the fucking babies? She let out a wave of force, slamming the spiders that were rushing up on her to the ground and three of them exploded under the pressure, spattering her in their innards. Warm, sticky, and they smelled like asparagus. Ugh. 

One of the remaining three she hit with a single lightning bolt and it cooked, acrid smoke roiling from the joints of its carapace. Two left. She was down to the dregs of her strength, and they were too fucking close to give her a moment for lyrium, so… She stabbed one in the face with the blade end of her staff, where it spasmed and fell stiff. While she was extended the other struck, biting straight through the leather bracer on her right forearm, straight through her whole fucking arm, with one of its fangs. She hit it in the face with another burst of force in her panic , the very last of her magic,and it was flung backwards. Unfortunately the fang remained, torn from its creepy fucking spider face and Hawke sat down hard as she looked at it. 

The Bone Pit was the fucking worst. 

Screeching and hissing accompanied the curling, crumpling death of the big one, and thank Andraste for that because she couldn’t stop staring at the fang impaling her arm, pulsing venom out of the end, and feeling deeply grateful that it had passed through so all of that poison wasn’t being injected into her. It was just puddling useless on the ground next to her boots. 

“Anyone need healing?” She couldn’t see Anders from where she was sitting, the body of the monstrous spider blocking him from view. 

“Little help?” She felt dizzy and wondered how much of the venom had hit her as the fang passed through her arm. A burning numbness was spreading up her arm into her shoulder, and that oxymoronic sensation was enough to tell her that she had plenty of venom in her blood, more than enough, thanks.

“Hawke?” 

“Over here.” Her voice was weaker than it should have been and she leaned on her uninjured arm. There was some scrambling and Varric entered her field of vision. 

He let out a low whistle. “Ancestors, Hawke. You did for all those yourself?” 

“Mm. Anybody else hurt?” 

“Not even a scratch. New guy is pretty useful, turns out.” He raised his voice. “Get your ass over here, Blondie. She’s turning a little gray. Or green. Blue in places actually.” 

She rasped out a laugh. “Funny.” Her lips were cold. 

“Who’s laughing?” He glanced over his shoulder and was almost knocked down as Anders hurried past him. 

“Andraste’s tits, Cara!” He went down on his knees next to her, fingers going to her neck, pressing against her pulse point. 

“You know I get jealous when you talk about that bitch’s rack, Anders.” She closed her eyes and leaned into him as he let out a slightly hysterical laugh. 

“Alright, I promise I won’t talk about anybody’s tits but yours if you stay with me for a minute while I get this fang out of your arm. Can somebody hold-- thanks.” His tone went sharp and Hawke cracked her eyes to see Fenris crouched next to her, his gaunleted hands closed hard over her wrist and elbow. Anders’ hand took hold of the broken end of the fang. “Count of three.” 

“I have her. Just get the wretched thing out, mage.” Hawke’s uninjured hand flexed and she weighed the merits of slapping the bitter son of a bitch while he was assisting with her spider-venom-based emergency. 

She settled for a muttered, “Shut the fuck up, Fenris.” His eyes cut to her and he made a little noise that was so low in his throat she could barely hear it.

Anders gave an irritated exhalation and said deliberately, “One. Two. Three.” He jerked hard and the fang came free. It was roughly the size of a large parsnip, and the hole left in her arm started bleeding freely immediately. “You should step away now.” Fenris hated getting caught in the edges of Anders’ spells. The gauntlets released her and he moved several paces away. “Okay, sweetheart. This is going to sting. Gotta flush the poison out before I close it up.” 

“Do it then, you sadistic bastard.” Alistair moved into her peripheral vision, looking down at her with green and black smears on his cheeks and flushed underneath. He took in her injury and the pile of dead arachnids, frowning. She opened her mouth to say something, either to tell him to fuck off or reassure him, she wasn’t sure which, but the squeak that she made instead was inarticulate with pain. She felt the surge of Anders’ magic and then it was like her blood was boiling in her veins from the right half of her chest down her entire arm. She screwed her eyes shut as she bit down on her top lip against any further humiliating noises. 

The pain faded and then the warm, soothing light that meant _Anders_ cascaded over her, followed by the distinctive squirmy sensation of her flesh knitting itself back together. Slowly the feeling faded and she blinked slowly up at him. 

“Better, love?” 

“Better. Itchy, achy.” She grunted as she pushed herself up to her feet, and then promptly started to sit back down. Anders grabbed one elbow, Alistair the other and a glance up between them saw Anders smiling crookedly at the taller man over her head. He even did that thing where his eye twitched in the suggestion of a sublimated wink. For his part, Alistair looked vaguely embarrassed and glanced down at her, avoiding further eye contact with Anders. 

Well, weird. She hadn’t watched Anders flirt with anybody in a long time, but that look he had right now? Yeah. Whether he didn’t know he was doing it, or was doing it just to fuck with Alistair, there was definitely a little glimmer of something in his eyes. Fucking Anders. She kicked him in the ankle, a feeble little tap, and scowled.

“Well doesn’t that just make a picture.” Isabela was leaning an elbow on Varric’s shoulder, grinning and licking her lips as she watched Hawke. 

Fucking pirate. Fucking Bone Pit. Fucking… Fenris. He was stalking stiffly away from the group, toward the tunnel that led to the exit. She opened her mouth to call out to him, almost taking a step to follow, feeling that familiar twist in her gut that always told her to rush after him, make it better for him. The slight squeeze of Anders’ fingers kept her still and she swallowed sudden fury at herself for not being done feeling that way. 

Anders let go of her arm and brushed her hair off her forehead, settling his palm there for a moment. His eyes were kind and warm and worried as he looked down at her, so of course she furrowed her brow and frowned back at him. “You’re going to feel a little ill from the residual toxin for a day or two. Shakey, achy, like you said. Lots of water, stay off your feet when you can, and no fistfights with any Qunari for at least two days.” His hand left her forehead and he held up two fingers in front of her face. “Two. Days. Got it?” 

She rolled her eyes and took a step forward, or tried, but found herself scooped up into Alistair’s arms. “No. No fucking way. Put me down, Alistair.” 

Hawke stopped struggling when he looked down at her, the green flecks and threads in his hazel eyes flashing in the torchlight. His eyes traveled over her face, lingering on her mouth for just a moment, and she felt her whole body tighten slightly against the itching and the aching straight into _wanting_. Right, yes, she remembered. He _liked_ this part. The muck and the blood and the realization everybody was still alive. “You heard the healer. Stay off your feet when you can.” He hitched her up a little closer to his chest so that he could murmur directly into her ear. “I can think of lots of ways to get you off your feet, pet.” 

Varric cleared his throat. “Come on, Daisy. This isn’t for you nor me to see.” He walked off, pulling Isabela along with him. “You too, Rivaini.” 

“Oh no, this is definitely for me to see.” 

“There isn’t anything to see, or anything to not see! Topside, clean up, lots of water and _then_ whatever you want to do to each other while Isabela listens in.” Anders was shooing them all, going so far as prodding Alistair with the top of his staff in the middle of the back. “I mean it.” 

Alistair blushed faintly, and cleared his throat. “Right. Of course, I wouldn’t… I didn’t mean…” He coughed and shook his head, stepping carefully after the others. For her part Hawke looped an arm around his neck and let her fingers curl under his ear, thumb stroking the corner of his jaw idly, and let her eyes close. If she was going to let him cart her around she was going to fucking enjoy it. 

It was full dark when they reached the entrance to the mines, a few pockets of miners around campfires further down the hill. Hawke had insisted Alistair set her down before walking out of the tunnel, leaning on her staff. He’d hovered at first until she scowled and physically shoved him after the others so she could speak to the foreman in peace. After explaining to Jansen that the spiders were finished, but the workers should take some precautions about the possibility of hidden egg sacs, she wandered down the hill to find their group settled around a newly kindled fire. She collapsed next to it and took the waterskin that was shoved at her with a snort.

One of the miners brought up a bucket of water and soap, setting it in front of Hawke. She started attacking the dried gobbets of spider yuck that clung to her hands and face. She watched her companions go about their own cleanup, occasionally catching glances from Alistair that made her cheeks warm. The chatter was layered and inconsequential so she wasn’t listening to the clusters of conversation, letting her mind drift with her eyes and her fingers pick bits of spider off her robes. 

She wasn’t alerted by the sound of his footsteps, because he was always too fucking quiet, so she startled when Fenris crouched down beside her. Anders was off talking to Jansen about some worker hygiene issue, Varric and Merrill were discussing dinner, Alistair was cleaning his armor and trying not to glare, for some reason she missed, at either Anders or Isabela, who was herself the object of attention of several miners wondering if she’d like to join them at their fire for the evening. So, stuck with Fenris. Fucking fantastic. 

She rinsed her face, trying to ignore him. 

“Hawke.” 

“What?” She tilted her head sideways to look at him as she started working spider muck from the front of her hair. 

“There is talk that you will be visiting the Arishok soon to discuss one of his viddathari.” 

“Right.” She applied a little soap and then rinsed it clean. “The Viscount’s son.” 

He made a small, irritated noise. “It will matter little to the Arishok who the boy was before he submitted to the Qun.” 

“It matters pretty fucking little to me too, but I’m still stuck having to talk about it.” She tried to wring as much water as she could out of the half of her hair that was now wet and pushed it back from her face. 

“I will go with you when you go to speak with the Arishok.” 

That gave her pause where she knelt and she straightened, looking at him with narrowed eyes. The flickering light of the fire was not making it easy to read his expression, adding extra layers of shifting shadows. She reached for the waterskin that Anders had left with her and took a long drink from it, trying to master her temper that flashed at the way he worded it. Not a request, not a suggestion. Just a statement, verging on an order. 

“If I think I need you, I’ll ask.” She had intended to ask. As awkward as these things were between them, she had promised him he wasn’t cut off from her life and he was the resident Qunari expert. It was important that she set the terms, though. It was bad enough that Isabela had ambushed her today, she wasn’t prepared to let Fenris muscle his way in wherever he saw fit. That had never been the way things worked between them. 

Despite the obscuring shadows she could see the muscle in his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth. “You are a fool and never ask when you need assistance. Your damned pride will get you nowhere with the Qunari except perhaps executed.” His voice had risen to the point that everyone else was watching them now. 

“And you think you’re the best person to keep me safe there? How do I know you won’t just say, ‘Hey Arishok! Free saarebas!’ in Qunlat and then leave me there to get my fucking mouth sewn shut?” Her voice was louder than his and if everyone hadn’t been outright staring before, they surely were now. 

“It would certainly keep you from further foolishness and degeneracy, since you have proved you cannot master yourself!” The snarl on Fenris’ face was familiar, and heartbreaking, and Hawke looked away from him. 

That had always been between them, of course, the belief that mages could not be trusted. Hawke’s one slip, the moment she was weakest when she would have taken a demon’s deal for her mother’s life, had proved him correct in his estimation. Any hope she had ever had that he would see her differently than other mages, that he would see mages differently at all, had gone in that moment. Nevermind that he had taken the offer a demon had given him in the Fade, would be a thrall himself if she hadn’t killed the demon in question. She rubbed her forehead tiredly, letting the silence stretch. 

Anders was watching her, face stoney and his hands knotted in shaking fists, fits and flickers of blue in his eyes. She shook her head at him. Alistair stepped to his shoulder and leaned close to his ear to ask something. All Hawke could see was his broad back in the padded gambeson he wore under his mail, but the tension of his shoulders was obvious. When Anders answered he seemed more himself, but fury still snapped in his eyes, twitched at the corners of his mouth. She couldn’t hear their conversation. 

“Hawke, I did not mean to--” That from Fenris, crouched just within arms’ reach, looking apprehensive, shoulders curled in, chin tucked slightly as if he expected her to lash out, to punish him. He probably did. 

“Didn’t you?” She could feel the coil of fury cold and shuddering in her as she turned her face toward him. “Mouth sewn shut, eyes blinded, magic chained. That sound pretty fucking ideal to you? You want to be my Arvaarad, Fenris? Hold my leash, punish me for being who I am, for my own good? That get you hard at night? How did you ever find it in you to touch me, when you hate me so fucking much?” 

“That is not what-- I do not hate _you_ , Hawke.” He looked ill, leaning away from her, the images she spat at him. 

“If I said to you that I hated elves would you believe me when I said I didn’t hate you?” 

“Being an elf does not give me the power to enslave and destroy!”

“I have never wanted to enslave anybody. And you do alright when it comes to destroying, you self-righteous prick.” She rubbed a hand idly against her chest, over her heart. “It is what I am, and who I am, and even if I could change it I wouldn’t.” He startled at that comment. Did he know her so little? Did he really think that she would give her magic away if she could? She tasted bile. “Please go away now.” She was shivering, feeling chilled and shaky as Anders had predicted, and so tired. The glint of gold caught her eye and she saw Isabela lurking in the shadows beyond the fire, keen-eyed interest in the pirate’s gaze. What fucking game was the woman playing? 

Fenris leaned forward, jaw set, expression mulish. “You do not rule me. I will not come and go at your whim, Hawke.” 

Her voice broke as she coughed a laugh. Was he fucking serious? “I didn’t order you. I asked you. Do you want me to fucking beg?” When he just stared at her, green eyes narrow and hard, she shoved herself to her feet, ignoring the quaking in her knees. 

That was the look he gave her that made her the most miserable. She couldn’t tell if it was assent to her suggestion of begging, or just dripping hate. It made her squirm and want to capitulate, just so he wouldn’t look at her so coldly, but she was done with caring what the fuck he thought, wasn’t she? And she sure as shit wasn’t going to beg. She was so tired, tired of fighting, tired of trying not to hate herself on his behalf. She turned on her heel and bent unsteadily to pick up her staff. 

“Hawke?” That was Anders voice, worried and warning at the same time. 

“Leave me alone. I’m going to go be a miserable, shitty person over there.” She waved vaguely into the darkness, head spinning and stomped off. “By my fucking self. I will assume that anything following me is more fucking spiders.” She couldn’t, she just couldn’t bear the weight of their gazes anymore. Pitying, disdainful, calculating. 

She rounded a small mound of slag and scrambled up a slope to tuck herself on the opposite face of a large boulder. It was the west side of the huge lump of basalt and it was still warm from the sun of the day. She sank down, pulling her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. No more being Hawke today. There was a thickness in her throat as she thought about the peace that just being Caralyn had brought her with Alistair. Was that only the night before? It was depressing that peace could be drained so quickly and so completely. 

The warmth of the boulder at her back eased her shivering and she let her eyes fall closed, trying not to dwell too much on the aches and itching, the anger and the hurt. She also tried to ignore the sounds of shouting and arguing from the group she left behind. Hopefully they wouldn’t kill each other while she wasn’t there, but if they did? It’s pretty much the right place for it. 

Hawke just hated the fucking Bone Pit.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair reflects on things and Anders calls shit like he sees it where Fenris and Isabela are concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long! 
> 
> There is a lot of talking, a lot of reflection, and varying degrees of squabbling. It is mostly the end of the previous chapter from Alistair's POV, and the argument that breaks out after Hawke stomps off.

“What do you know about Orlesian geometry, handsome?” Alistair hadn’t even noticed Isabela until she was at his side, looping her arm through his elbow, leaning against him sort of… bonelessly. How did she remain upright? They were trudging away from the mine entrance, and even though he tried hard not to, he glanced behind him, back to where Caralyn was talking to the foreman, wishing she would rescue him. She didn’t, of course, and Anders, who was following after, had a funny little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Orlesian geometry? Is it different in Orlais? Are all the shapes made of expensive cheese?” Cheese was a safe topic. Cheese was always a safe topic, and he was fairly certain that nothing Isabela actively wanted to talk about could be remotely considered safe. He remembered her from the Pearl, quick hands running over Elissa’s arms, across her neck, whispering in her ear. Elissa’s quick glance up to Alistair and the laugh she had let out, not a nice laugh, not a laugh of pleasure or happiness. She had laughed at him, or whatever thought Isabela had put in her head regarding him. 

He shook the thought away, and tried to pull his arm from Isabela’s grasp, but she just slipped her hand around his waist. He nearly found himself with his arm around her shoulders, but he stopped abruptly and shifted his weight, which caused her to carry forward for several steps. 

“Leave him alone, Isabela.” Anders had drawn up on his other side, shaking his head. 

She pouted, easily shifting so that she was walking backwards down the hill, still managing to sway her hips as she studied the two of them. “I was just asking him what he thought about triangles and Orlais.” One of her eyebrows lifted over her heavy gaze, and he could see her tongue working the stud in her lip for a moment before it flickered out, wetting the… 

Maker, he was not watching her mouth like that! How did the woman do that? He scowled past her, fixing his eyes on the white beacon of Fenris’ hair. It didn’t really make him more comfortable to watch Caralyn’s former lover, but at least the irritation wasn’t quite so embarrassing. 

“I think he probably has as much interest in your treatises on triangles as he would on phallic tubers and their uses.” He was not looking at Anders, not feeling the blood rise in his ears as he started to get a very clear picture of where this conversation was headed. 

“Are you sure, sweet thing? Because with the both of you in Hawke’s house, it seems like he could probably use a primer at least. Two pretty wardens, all that… mmm frustration… I could tutor?” Her voice was full of laughter, dark and rich, and a little invasive. Like hands that lingered too long when the touch should be casual. Could a voice linger? Alistair rather thought hers did. “I’ve taught more than a few courses on how to explore all the angles in that sort of arrangement. We could discuss four-ways-- I mean squares as well, if that’s what our new friend prefers.” She spread her hands in an open, offering sort of gesture that Alistair could see without looking directly at her. 

“Ever the generous friend.” 

“I’m a giver.” 

“I think that any arrangements, entanglements, or geometrical proofs that Hawke wants to try out won’t need your assistance, Bela.” Anders sounded crisp, almost disapproving, for which Alistair was very, very grateful.

“Suit yourself.” She pivoted and swayed up to Fenris, falling in step beside him. 

“That was… different.” Alistair cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Actually that wasn’t different at all. Look at me, years on, still not falling into bed with Captain Isabela. Some things never change.”

“She may be a selfish, irresponsible hedonist with an admirable disregard for the law, but she’s consistent. It’s been… oh at least six years for me and she still tries every now and again to get me back into bed.” When Alistair glanced at him, trying to decide if he was serious, Anders shrugged and looked vaguely affronted. “What? Why does everyone always give me that look?” 

His face was starting to itch where the spider guts were drying on his skin, and he wrinkled his nose as he resisted scratching at it. “Oh, no, I’m sure you were loads of fun for a renegade apostate back then. Very popular with the ladies.” 

He startled when Anders leaned closer, arm brushing against him, chuckling. “Well, not only with the ladies.” The corner of Anders’ eye twitched in what was almost a wink, and Alistair was sure he’d done the same thing when they were still in the cave, and Maker what was wrong with all of these people? 

As Alistair coughed Anders smirked up through his lashes. How? He was only an inch or two shorter than Alistair, but he looked positively… what was the sly version of bashful? Coy? Yes, he looked coy! And smug. Alistair was blushing and he broke away from Anders to find a quiet spot where he could start cleaning off the grime of the fight and tend to his gear. 

It wasn’t too long before he found his eyes wandering over to Anders as he unfastened the catches of his armor. The teasing and flirting reminded him a little, just a smidge, of Zevran. His old friend had seemed at times to be little more than stabbing and sex tenuously held together by tight Antivan leather, but underneath all that he was different, troubled even. Anders was shabby, all feathers and stubble, but there was something similar in their facades, and maybe in their depths. 

He shook his head as he shrugged out of his splint mail, grimacing at it, thinking about the very shiny silverite and dragonbone plate he’d sported once upon a time. Long sold or traded for passage out of Ferelden and coarser, less flashy gear. Something that a lone sellsword working and drinking his way across the Free Marches might actually wear. The shinier the armor, the greater the target, and Alistair had wanted to disappear. 

For a very long time he’d been working on doing nothing but that: just simply disappearing. 

When Caralyn dropped to the ground on the opposite side of the fire he caught his breath and tried not to stare at her. The woman was a mess, pale from her injury and healing under the the smears of spider that were all over her face, bloody to her right elbow with red streaks all down her leg. Her braid was coming loose and her lips were pressed into a frown of aggravation or determination or discomfort. It could be almost anything. She rolled her eyes when Anders wordlessly shoved a waterskin into her hands but the smile that hid behind her irritation was lovely. Her eyes flicked up and met Alistair’s, and yes he was caught. He was staring. He smiled a little ruefully and she looked away, her expression suddenly shy. Maker, she was a bucket of contradictions. 

He nearly stood then, to go over to her, wanting to hold her, breath in the scent of her sweat in her hair, feel the warmth of her skin. He had always wanted that kind of contact after a fight, but with Caralyn it was made the muscles in his shoulders twitch with the desire to reach for her. He wouldn’t call it desperate, but maybe intense? Personal at the very least. 

Today when he’d gathered her up to carry her out of the mine it wasn’t only about the way his body stirred, the desire to be close present in his skin. He wanted to give her a moment to let go of the stern, angry, unapproachable fortress she seemed to try to live inside. Even surrounded by her friends, her followers, everyone called her Hawke, but he couldn’t find it in him to think of her that way. He wanted to kiss Caralyn, peel the robes that he’d helped her don off Caralyn’s body, lick the salt from Caralyn’s skin. He heard the word Hawke, but he didn’t know that person. He knew a woman who the world kept breaking open so often he was starting to wonder if she ever stopped bleeding. Maybe he flattered himself, but she seemed to find some measure of peace pressed against him. He was starting to think he would do almost anything to give her that ease. 

He was pretty sure the cause of her current unease had just dropped to a crouch next to where she knelt, washing spider parts from her hair. 

Alistair wasn’t a possessive man. He was protective, yes, and he was so used to carrying the shield it was hard to put it down, but he wasn’t going to interrupt their conversation. When the tone shifted, suddenly becoming loud and angry, and he could hear the words for the first time when Fenris shouted, “Your damn pride will get you nowhere with the Qunari except perhaps executed,” he stood. 

There was an edge to this fight that meant something harder, something sharper than a quarrel, and he wanted to end it. He imagined bashing his shield into Fenris’ jaw to stop him from saying those things to her. Would that actually help? He would do it if it would, but Alistair was there on Caralyn’s sufferance and he wasn’t going to give her another reason to push him away, another reason to run from him. 

Still… he felt better when he glanced to his right and saw Anders standing only two paces away, looking thunderous. And when Fenris all but said that Caralyn would be better off collared and leashed, muzzled like an animal, like a Qunari mage, he felt the crackle of the energy Anders gave off. His own hands clenched into fists to keep from reaching for his sword but he held back. He still didn’t fully understand the landscape of this argument. 

Fenris was her former lover, he knew that. He knew, or suspected he knew, that Caralyn had not been the one to end it between them. How did that even work? The elf was mad? The fact that she was a mage was apparently a large problem for him. Was he a danger to her? That was the real question. Seeing the blue that flashed into Anders’ eyes made him think perhaps the danger was real, and wasn’t it a funny world in which he didn’t think the danger was coming from the spirit-ridden apostate next to him? 

Before he could think too deeply about the wisdom of it, he turned to Anders and leaned in close to ask, “Is he going to hurt her and do I need to kill him?” He wasn’t even sure how serious the question was or how much it was simply meant to distract Anders from turning incandescent and scary. It made the hair all over Alistair’s body stand up being that close to him, the scent of metal and lightning and something else sharp and sweet in the air around him.

The brief stare that Alistair received as those eyes faded from blue back to golden brown was full of surprise and assessment. Anders gave a brief shake of his head. “Him hurt her? You mean physically? I almost wish he’d try.” There was real rancor in his voice, which softened to a mutter Alistair wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t already put his face next to Anders’ ear. “Maker, Cara, don’t you dare believe him.” 

He turned back to watch them as everyone around the fire was watching, tension apparent, half-prepared for it to come to blows. Alistair had seen Caralyn about to throw a punch, hair bristling with the crackling energy she summoned around her fists, eyes wild and hot, and the way she looked now was nothing like that. She looked injured. 

Anders was the one to call after her as she stood to leave, but he said, “Hawke,” and Alistair knew that was the wrong name. 

She looked lost when she shouted, “Leave me alone. I’m going to go be a miserable, shitty person over there.” Alistair flinched, and maybe he imagined it, but he kind of thought everyone around the fire flinched at the same time. He hoped they did. He hoped they felt, like he did, that every one of them had failed her. 

For a moment the whole group seemed to hold its breath, until Caralyn disappeared into the darkness, and several things happened at once. Fenris turned, expression bleak and tattoos flickering, to follow her, while Varric pulled Isabela aside.

“Mind telling me what you were thinking bringing the elf along, Rivaini?” Varric’s voice was carefully casual. 

“Get out of my way, abomination!” Anders had stepped to block Fenris from following Caralyn, which made Alistair feel like hugging him. Just a little. 

“That isn’t going to happen, Fenris.” 

“Creators, what a mess.” Merrill’s hands sat on her hips, looking disapproving over the whole group. 

“You mean other than that he’s good at stabbing things?” Isabela sounded bored and sulky at the same time. “I was trying to get them to talk, Varric. Talk or fuck it out, or something. They’ve both been miserable for months, and I’m just so tired of looking at their long faces.” 

“No, Fenris. There isn’t anything left for you to say to her. You’ll only tear her down.” 

“Hawke is a big girl. She could have figured it out without you pouring your rotgut on the fire.” 

“I didn’t see Isabela pour anything on the fire, Varric.” 

“I might have misjudged the odds that fucking it out was in the cards. But you know you can’t win if you don’t play, Varric. I tried.” 

“You sure that was all? You weren’t trying to set Broody up to fall upon your bosom in despair after seeing Hawke and her new piece? No offense, new guy.” Varric shot him a glance. 

Alistair blinked at the dwarf. He really hoped he wasn’t stuck with the nickname “new guy.” He watched Isabela shift her weight as if she were irritated, but he thought she was actually just squirming, and the expression on Varric’s face said he could see it as well. 

Fenris’ next words fell into the gap in the tandem arguments. “After everything, do you think it safe for her to be unsupervised when she is upset?” The silence that followed seemed only long enough for Anders to draw a breath, eyes blazing and irate, but still his own. Still brown, and not formless whorls of blue. 

“I’m sorry, unsupervised?” 

“She is alone.” 

“If that’s what you meant you should have bloody well said that!” It was only Anders and Fenris talking now, everyone else staring at them. Alistair wondered if this was something that happened often. The animosity between them almost had a flavor, the air was so thick with it. “But that isn’t what you meant, is it? If you think because of what she did when her mother was cut into pieces and sewn back together wrong she’s in danger of turning to a demon every time you hurt her feelings, you’ve completely lost your mind!” 

Fenris shifted angrily, and looked away from Anders, jaw working. “I expect nothing less from an abomination. Of course you would ignore the dangers.” 

“Do you think you mean as much to her as her mother? Do you think that she would sell her soul over _you_? After you left her alone in her bed? After telling her being with her was a mistake? After throwing her love back in her face once you’d fucked her?” 

Alistair felt a little ill listening to Anders. He had no business hearing this if she wasn’t the one telling him. 

Fenris stared blankly at Anders for a moment before disbelief spread over his face. “None of this is your concern, mage!” His roar twisted the shock on his features into something nearly a caricature of fierceness and offense. 

“By Andraste’s fire, Fenris who do you think you are? Did it make you happy to make her feel less than you because she’s a mage? Worth nothing to you? When you hate yourself so completely what does that make her in your eyes? In hers?” Anders had closed the gap to the elf, looming over him, and the way that Fenris’ tattoos glowed made Alistair shift a step closer to his shield just in case it came to blows between them. 

Everyone looked unnerved, but it was Isabela who said, “Come on Sparky, don’t you think that’s a bit much?” She flinched when Anders rounded at her. Andraste’s ass, he was a bit batty, exposing his back to Fenris that way.

“No, Isabela, it’s not enough by half! You brought him here, you’ve been pulling strings and pushing switches for weeks. Touching Fenris every time you knew Hawke was looking. Knocking on his door--” he flung a finger at Alistair “--while she was drunk in the hall so you could run and tell us about what they did while you pressed your ear against the keyhole.” That made Alistair blink, but the surprise faded quickly, and the flush that rose was as much anger as it was embarrassment. He rubbed a hand through his hair. 

Anders wasn’t done. “You came sauntering up to the gates with the bloody elf like it wouldn’t hurt Cara to see him or make her nervous, make her uncertain. You’re lucky she wasn’t injured worse than a simple spider bite.” 

A fang longer than his hand stabbed completely through her arm. That was a simple spider bite? Of course it was. Alistair would hate to see what Anders considered a complicated spider bite.

“We all know how you are, but honestly? You spent the walk down the hill trying to talk Alistair into a _menage à trois_ that you weren’t even a part of!” Orlesian triangle. Right. As Anders continued shouting Alistair weighed the merits of melting back into the darkness and never showing his face amongst these people again. He could go back to being Caralyn’s dirty secret. “You weren’t there to see her this morning, but I was. And you know what? She never looked that well, that at-ease when she was waiting for Fenris to love her back. And now that she’s not waiting anymore, I couldn’t be happier. I might marry the man myself to keep him around if that’s how she’s going to look in the morning.” 

“I don’t think that makes any sense, Blondie.” Alistair agreed with Varric’s assessment of that statement. Anders had plainly lost the thread of his rant a few thoughts back, but the sentiment was so… concerned for Caralyn that Alistair couldn’t really find fault. Embarrassment though? By the bushel. 

“I know it doesn’t make any sense! None of this makes any sense! Except when she makes it make sense and he can’t let her be happy without him, even though she certainly wasn’t happy with him, and for some wretched, unfathomable reason Isabela is helping him not let her be happy. How’s that for your bloody sense?” Everyone blinked as Anders wound down, panting, red-faced but not visibly blue or glowy. He cocked his head for a moment and then shook it, looking exhausted and pinched, and underneath that? Fragile and sad. 

Isabela’s arms were folded, her chin tucked, and she toed the ground looking for all the world like a scolded child. “If Hawke wants to be happy she should stop taking everything so damn seriously. You certainly don’t help with that, Anders.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulders and her earrings danced in the firelight. “I was trying to help her get over it, but she only seems to be getting more... under it. The last thing she needed was more feelings. Ugh.” 

“That’s the way you live, Isabela, not her.” Everyone turned to look at Merrill, who was drawn up, trying to seem taller than she was and stern. She was completely forgotten until that moment. “It isn’t fair for you to try and manipulate Hawke’s choices that way, is it? You should apologize.” She turned her solemn gaze on Fenris. “And so should you if you were ever Hawke’s friend at all.” 

Fenris had gone pale and silent, and if he heard Merrill he didn’t show it in his stillness. His eyes glittered cold and hard as he looked at Alistair, and Alistair met his gaze feeling considerably calmer than he probably should after listening to Anders’ tirade. He wanted Fenris to threaten him, threaten Anders, anything that would give him something to do instead of stand there, looking stupid and twisting with embarrassment. 

Varric rubbed his forehead for a moment and then sighed. “Alright, I think that was… a lot. So, how’s about we scrounge up some food, roll into our beds, and get some sleep so we can get the void out of this quarry at first light.” 

“I intend to return to the city now.” Fenris’ voice was quiet and empty. He checked his sword, the fittings and buckles of his armor in an absent way and then pulled his pack over his shoulder. 

“You’re running away! Why am I not surprised?” 

“That is plenty, Anders!” This time it was Merrill who said it and he shut his mouth with a surprised blink. “I don’t think him staying would help your mood, and we all know you aren’t leaving without Hawke, and she doesn’t seem to want to see any of us, so he may as well go so you don’t spend the rest of the night making all of us miserable. Besides, the quiet might do him some good. He’ll have plenty of time on his walk to think about how apologies work, won’t he?” She nodded crisply and turned to her own pack, seeming to have declared the conversation over. 

“I guess Daisy really was training to be a Keeper after all.” Varric’s tone was positively proud. His pack was next to Merrill’s and they began to converse softly over what supplies they had that might make a meal. 

Isabela looked sour as she glanced from Merrill’s back to Anders’ disgust and then gave an elaborate sigh. Alistair was sure she knew exactly what that sequence of movements did to her bodice of her dress-shirt-thing. “Well, unless someone is going to spank me first I don’t fancy being put to bed without any supper. And by supper I mean whiskey. I’ll walk back with you, sweetness.” She joined Fenris despite his frown and they left, disappearing quickly into the shadows. 

Alistair returned to the pile of armor that he had almost finished cleaning, and took it back up. The final few pieces were easily wiped down and he worked steadily, trying to stop his hands from trembling with anger, willing his heart to stop racing. He wanted to hit something, Fenris or Isabela seemed the obvious choices at the moment, but he didn’t think that would help Caralyn, or in any way fix the tatters of her little group. Even if it would make him feel better. At least for a minute or two. 

There were a few places the splints were coming loose on the cuirass that he would need repaired, but he really hadn’t taken much of a beating considering the size of the spider. It had been easy enough to hold it off with his shield and sword. While Caralyn wandered off by herself to kill a whole horde of spiders alone, getting chewed on in the process. 

“Maker’s breath, this is stupid.” He piled his gear and went to the bucket to wash the spider off his face. 

“What is?” Anders sat a few feet away in a puddle of shadow, watching him. 

Alistair nodded to the path that Fenris and Isabela had taken back to Kirkwall, and then waved a hand around vaguely. “This. Him, Caralyn, me. I don’t have any idea how I got involved.” 

Anders scooted a little closer, his face visible in the firelight. “Well, as I heard it, you fucked her in an alley. And that’s how you got involved.” He was wearing his mean face again, the one he’d had this morning when they’d discussed… things over cheese pies and tea. Alistair wasn’t sure if he prefered it or the frothing mad outrage from the tirade minutes ago. Maybe if he were the target of that outrage it would be easier to decide, but Alistair prayed he never did anything to Caralyn that made Anders that angry with him. 

“No! Well yes, but… Maker. I’m not saying I don’t want to be involved... I just feel like I’m making it worse for her, being here.” He splashed water on his face, through his hair, over the back of his neck. He shook his head, dashing water from his face and drying it on the sleeve of his shirt. 

“You’re right. That is stupid.” Anders watched him narrow-eyed. “The last thing she needs is you running off out of some misplaced sense of nobility. Go ask her, you big bloody idiot, if you’re that worried you’re making her life worse.”

That almost made sense. And that made it a terrible plan, didn’t it? “Yes, why wouldn’t I just go talk to her about it? Aside from the fact that almost every time we have a conversation that blunders too close to the land of feelings she breaks out in some horrible mental rash and tries to run the other way?” He frowned at the fire, ignoring the fact that Anders was studying him, glare slowly giving way to a lopsided smile. 

“You’re adorable. You should try holding her down and kissing her until she stops arguing.” Anders scratched at the line of his jaw as he looked thoughtfully up at the sky. “I’ve never tried that myself, mind, but it seems like the kind of thing that would work for you.” 

“You’re trying to get me killed. And just when we were getting to be such good friends.” Alistair smirked as Anders glanced over at him, an answering lift to the corner of his mouth. 

“I don’t think you have much to worry about if you’re the kind of kisser I think you are.” Anders stood from where he was seated, brushing off the back of his coat. It was sort of futile, the whole thing already more or less the color of dirt, which was much safer to think about than what he’d just said. “Would you take her some water, if you can find her? She left without any and she’s going to need it or she’ll be a bear in the morning.” 

“I knew a witch once who could turn into a bear.” As non-sequitors went it was one of Alistair’s better ones. Completely obvious conversation derailment. “An actual bear. And a spider. Very creepy.” He caught the skin that Anders tossed to him, looking at it for a moment before his eyes shifted back up. Anders was looking at the small trail that Caralyn had followed, eyes seeming to see something very far away, but after a moment he turned his gaze back to Alistair. Ah, yes, caught staring at the mad apostate who had lately been musing about what kind of kisser he was. Brilliant. 

Anders grinned at him, one eyebrow raising. “I always thought that would be useful. Unfortunately the sort of magic the Circle forbids.” He flicked his fingers at Alistair. “Go on.” 

“If she shoots lightning at me and cooks me like one of those spiders, I’m blaming you.” He shook his head and turned toward the shadowy heap of slag that Caralyn had disappeared behind, feeling relieved to escape this cursed campfire of humiliation. 

He glanced back once to see Anders still watching him, his features lost in the shadows with the fire behind him. One last impatient flick of his fingers and he turned away, leaving Alistair to blunder around in the bushes above a quarry, outside a mine that was apparently always crawling with some kind of horrible monster, in the dark. If the crazy mage wasn’t trying to kill him he was doing a damn good impression of it.

Hopefully he’d get to try out Anders’ plan of holding Caralyn down and kissing her until she was ready to talk before he was either murdered by her or eaten by monsters. Alistair had learned to be happy with the simple things. 

And the not so simple things, really. Because, honestly? Knowing Caralyn Hawke was shaping up to be the farthest thing from simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people have asked me what was going on with Isabela in the last few chapters. I hope that it came across here, but I thought I'd explain a little of what I was trying to do with her because I'm not confident it happened: 
> 
> Isabela is uncomfortable with intense/serious feelings. Hawke has been having a lot of feelings over the past few months. In this Isabela's worldview rebound sex should have fixed Hawke's thing with Fenris, but that didn't work. Maybe if Hawke and Fenris spend enough time together they'll give in to all the tension and "fuck it out" as one might "hug it out." But she's also kind of selfish and fancies Fenris and would be more than willing to catch him on the rebound as Varric suggests. There's a few different emotional valences to her behavior that tangle up selfishness, wanting the gang to get back to normal, and wanting to fix Hawke (though Isabela's concept of how she's broken doesn't align with Hawke's actual problems). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke ruminates about stars and magic and things. Oh and Alistair. And then there's sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of fluffy and self-indulgent, but I felt like it was time for one of those.

The moon was a quarter full, bright and yellow above the horizon. Before long it would dip behind the hills that obscured Kirkwall from view and leave the clear, late-summer sky full only of stars. Hawke tipped her head back, looking straight up, fixing her gaze on the dark spaces between the pinpricks of light. She’d learned this trick from her father, to see new stars where it seemed none were visible. 

_Try not to look at anything, bug, and you’ll be surprised at what you see._

Bug. She hadn’t thought of that in a long time. There had been fireflies in the meadows and fields when they lived south of Highever. The Hawkes had lived there the year she turned eight, and it was that summer during a storm that her magic first emerged. Like the night around her now, but heavier, more humid, with the small shifting swarms of fireflies in the brush. When the thunder and lightning had begun Bethany and Carver, barely more than babies, had wailed and demanded to go inside, but not Caralyn. She had danced away from her parents, shouting at the storm clouds, with sparks firing all of her body, flashing in the night so pregnant with energy. 

Firefly. Lightning bug. Bug. Those were the things that Malcolm Hawke had called her. Nobody living knew that except for Hawke and Carver. Did Carver remember? Did Carver ever think about her at all, other than as the dirty secret that would ruin his career as a Templar if uncovered? 

Too fucking maudlin tonight. Too fucking maudlin by half. 

Instead of dwelling on it she let her magic rise to the surface, letting sparks flicker and shift along her skin while she looked up at the sky, seeing more stars than she could count, even though the dimmest were washed out by the remaining light of the moon. It always felt good to give in to the most basic expression of her magic, the one that had happened first, instinctive and unblemished. 

For some mages, like Anders, it was traumatic, a fire in a hayloft out of control. She was lucky, and she knew it, and the pleasure she took in the memory of that sudden freedom, that bond with the world in all its power and terror, as if she were a part of the storm, and never had to fear the dark and the thunder again… it was a selfish pleasure. Something she had that other mages didn’t: her father’s sudden, fierce joy as she’d laughed in delight at the crackle and hum that made her hair stand on end. His firefly. His lightning bug. 

It was why her father ran, why he stayed free. 

It was the moment that Anders fought the Templars for, even though he could never reclaim it, the moment she wished he had been able to have. The one they both believed every mage child, every apostate parent, had the right to experience. 

The sound of grit and stone under boots shook her back to herself and the sparks died, the static dissipating into the ground around her. She drew herself up, taking a deep breath, surprised when it hitched in her chest. She’d been crying without noticing. She wiped her cheeks irritably, scrubbing the tears away as the footsteps stopped. 

There were several seconds of silence and then Alistair’s cautious voice called, “Caralyn?” 

She had to swallow against the lump in her throat at the hope and the worry in his voice. She thought she’d figured it out, the kindess, but if she wasn’t careful she could still choke on it. 

There were several breaths of silence before he said, “I have water for you from Anders.” She didn’t respond. “Is that less likely to get me shocked or squished or set on fire, than just saying I was worried about you and came to see how you are?” 

She coughed softly, a laugh that stuck in her craw, and she let a flicker of the lightning that had danced across her skin return so he could see her in the shadows. “I’m not going to squish you.” 

The footfalls seemed steadier now that there was a target that lit the way. “And the shocking or immolating?” 

“Have you ever seen me immolate anything?” 

“Hmm. That’s very reassuring.” He rounded the boulder and stopped, squinting slightly. The light from her skin illuminated his face as he looked down at her, and once his eyes adjusted to the glare they widened. “Maker, Caralyn.” He sounded slightly pained, and she banished the magic with a shake of her head and a flick of her fingers. 

“Sorry for blinding you. Didn’t think it was that bright.” She reached up for the water skin, and he handed it to her automatically. Drinking, she watched his face, trying to sort the shadows that made up his features in the moonlight. He stared at her in silence until she looked away. 

“No. Don’t… that was… Do it again?” He crouched down next to her, facing toward the boulder, and then sat down with a slight thump. 

“What?” She looked back at him when he nudged her bent knee with his own. 

“The sparkly thing you were just doing. Would you do it again? I’ve never… it was…” While he fumbled she relaxed a little, letting the lick of magic out that would send the tiny bolts and snips of lightning popping and skittering over her hands and face, the only parts of her that were bare. 

She felt her mouth quirk at the rapt expression on his face. Her lights winked and glimmered in his eyes. Varric would love the image which was why he would never, _ever_ find out about it. Merciless killer, fine. Sparkling beauty that literally made her lover starry-eyed? She would have to kill him and everyone who heard or read the story. So every person in the whole fucking Free Marches. Better to not let anyone ever hear about it, wiser not to even do it, but she still found herself reaching up to unfasten her braid and shake her hair out, shivering at the sensation of the white-violet energy sparking in a flurry. Her hair didn’t settle properly after that and when she shifted it caused more sparks. 

“That’s… wow.” He reached for her hand, taking it even though he winced just before the contact was made, but she buffered the charge as it jumped the gap before his bare hand touched hers. She wouldn’t let it hurt him, though she certainly could burn the skin right off someone’s fingers if she wanted, maybe even seize them until they broke their own teeth. Just more magic, and less control, but this wasn’t a weapon. It was something essential to her and she let him touch it. The tingle spread over him, the bright light arcing where they touched and then dancing over his hand as well. “I’ve never seen anything… It’s beautiful. You… you’re beautiful. And amazing.” 

She let him hold her hand and rested her chin on her knees as she watched him draw his fingers from her wrist to fingertip. He smiled as the sparks chase his touch. The little grin and the wide cast of his eyes smoothed his face with wonder, making him look boyish. It was rare in her experience to see that look unshadowed by fear in the eyes of someone who didn’t have magic of their own, even faced with the most benign of displays. Healing could just as easily make people withdraw in fear even while a life was saved. 

She’d certainly never shown this to Fenris, sure he’d recoil in horror, revulsion. It probably would have caused him physical pain as well. But Alistair? He just looked spellbound. She shifted her face, laying her cheek on her knee and facing away from him, chest throbbing with a faraway ache. 

“You’re very quiet.” 

She sighed, letting the magic fade, casting them back into shadow. It hid her features from close scrutiny as she straightened, leaning against the rock behind her and settling her legs straight out in front. “I’m tired.” 

Alistair’s hand settled on her knee and gave a gentle squeeze. “I guess that makes sense… but I thought you’d be angrier.” 

“And I thought you’d be running for the fucking hills by now.” 

“I could be wrong, but I think we’re already in the hills.” 

She let out a little irritated sigh. “Well, running away from the hills then.” 

“I’d considered it but I’m too tired to carry you and make sure I didn’t fall down in the dark and wind up at the bottom of a chasm full of creepy crawlies that wanted to eat me.” 

“Carry me?” She smirked a little at the image. It was a nice one, actually. Hefted over Alistair’s shoulder while he packed her away from all this insane bullshit. No more Fenris, no more Qunari, no more Gallows. 

“I wasn’t sure if you would just run away from all this glamour if I asked. It was a thought.” His hand slid up her leg a little, resting on her thigh, before he grunted faintly. “Come here.” He grabbed her wrist and tugged a little. 

“What? Where?” 

“Come here, you beautiful, mad thing.” He dragged her forward, away from the rock and manhandled her while he shifted until he was seated behind her. She sat between his legs, and he pulled her back until she was flush with him and resting against his chest. “There. Now…” He leaned down, brushing her hair off her neck and buried his face against her skin, inhaling deeply for a moment and then parting his lips kissed the side of her throat. 

“Fuck, Alistair.” The arm that crossed her middle and pulled her back against him, the warmth of his mouth on her neck, it affected her immediately, all the tension in her body seeming to drain into the pit of her belly, the small of her back. The places he kissed along her throat sang, and when he turned her head so he could trace the line of her jaw she let out a low gasp. His mouth ended at the corner of hers and he pressed a kiss there, oddly chaste, before he leaned away. “Why in the void did you stop?” She nudged him with an elbow as she grumbled. 

“I wanted to ask you something. Anders said--” 

He paused when she snorted, shifting as she sat up, putting a little space between them. Fucking Anders. Meddler. “He’s an idiot. What did he say?” 

“Well… there was a bit of a row.” 

“I heard some shouting. Everyone survived it?” 

“More or less. The only casualties seem to be the pride of an elf, a pirate, and that idiot you mentioned. I think Merrill won. Well, maybe Anders did, but apparently he doesn’t allow for surrender and gives no quarter, so she had to negotiate the terms of retreat, and before you knew it everyone was very quiet.” 

“I don’t have any idea what the fuck you are talking about.” 

“And I’m sure that comes as a great surprise to us both. I know I didn’t understand everything that was shouted and I was there.” He fell silent for a moment and when he continued he sounded more than a little bemused. “I think maybe Anders said he wanted to marry me?” His hands settled over her shoulder blades and he started to rub gently down her back. 

“That doesn’t really help.” When his hands stilled she glanced back at him. “Not that, that was nice.” She was trying to sort what the fuck he was talking about. When Anders got going he often wound up in strange rhetorical dead-ends. It was why she had to edit his manifesto manuscripts. Marrying Alistair was a particularly strange place to end up. Especially given the flirting he’d been lobbing at the man behind her, which she figured was aimed to make her crazy and force her to admit to having feelings. He was always pulling bullshit like that. As if her feelings were particularly useful or trustworthy. 

“No, I don’t suppose it does. Well, regardless, it was ugly and it made me wonder if I was making it… worse. By being here. With you.” His hands slid up to the top of her shoulders and gripped there, gentle but firm, and it was the only thing that kept her from bolting straight into the darkness and fuck him for knowing that he needed to hold on to keep her there. Or was it good he did because she didn’t really want him to let her go? 

It wasn’t worse, was it? The previous night, the one spent together, had been the best thing that had happened to her in weeks. Maybe months? She shuddered at the thought of how safe she’d felt by the end, pressed under him, spread open, ready to yield just about anything he asked for, but he had asked for only what she was actually prepared to give. And now he was talking about going. Did he want to go? Was all the bullshit and the dramatics too much? She thought so half the time, but it was her life and… 

“Caralyn?” She realized she’d been silent for a while, shivering under his hands despite the warmth of the night. 

“I…” She shook her head abruptly and started to slide forward, trying to get out of his grip because if he was touching her she could barely think straight. 

“Nope. Nooo. You need to tell me. If it is… hurting you, my being here? I’ll go. But please don’t run.” His hands slid down her arms and then around her midsection and he leaned forward, curling around her and resting his chin on her shoulder so that his lips brushed her ear as he spoke. “You shouldn’t have to leave. This is you… your life, your place, your friends.” 

She’d had no trouble telling Fenris to leave her alone earlier, but his refusal had caused her to retreat. Now Alistair was telling her that she shouldn’t have to, that he would go if she wanted him to. How many times in twenty-four hours could she have this conversation with him? It was fucking exhausting and ridiculous. She wanted him, he wanted her, they were adults. She shook her head slowly until he tipped her face up toward him. 

“Anders suggested I kiss you until you stop trying to argue. I don’t know what to do when you won’t even talk.” His lips brushed hers gently, undemanding. It was heartbreaking and tender and when the fuck did her heart get so involved he could break it with tenderness? Fucking void. 

She pulled one of her arms free from where it was buried under his enfolding hug and reached up to lay her hand on the back of his head. Her fingers tightened in his hair and she drew him down, arching back so that she could kiss him hard. It was sloppy and a little awkward at that angle, trying to be the demanding one, the one who took, but he warmed to it very quickly, parting his lips so that she could slide her tongue across his. The shift from seated between his legs to kneeling there, facing him and pressing him back against the boulder happened when she wasn’t paying any attention to anything other than his smell and the press of his warm lips against hers. 

She took his lower lip between her teeth then sucked it into her mouth. His tongue flicked against her lips, his hands pulling at her, and she relented, falling into him, letting him guide the kiss, tasting and nipping until her lips were tender and they were both breathless. It was his hands curving around her hips to cup her ass that reminded her they were more than just mouths and she broke away, her nose pressed against his cheek, her breath mingling with his in soft pants. 

“Or I could kiss you until you stop fucking talking.” 

“Or that,” he murmured agreeably. His hands were moving slowly over the outside of her fitted trousers, trailing up and then back down, from the small of her back to the tops of her thighs, squeezing occasionally.

“Stay.” 

“Hmm?” There was still enough moonlight to see his eyes open in the dark as she drew away to settle back on her heels, effectively trapping his roaming hands between her ass and her boots. 

“You aren’t making anything worse by being here. My friends will figure it the fuck out.” She raised one of her hands to cup his cheek, running her palm against the stiff burn of his stubble. “I think that Fenris is the only one who is actually an issue, and he and I have never been particularly… cordial.” 

“Even when you were…?” He trailed off, the question there, but seemingly abandoned. 

She huffed a soft, possibly bitter laugh. “Especially when we were fucking.” The first, the only time, he’d thrown her against the wall because she dared to put a hand on his arm, trying to draw him back, to just fucking talk to her about the hatred that was eating him after Hadriana. It had taken her breath away, and when they crashed together she never gave it a second thought that he wasn’t ready, that he didn’t actually want to let her, a mage, in. She shook her head slowly. “He wasn’t… we didn’t fit.” 

“You loved him.” He inflected it like a statement. An answer. It seemed like such a simple explanation for a thousand difficult questions about why and how and what for, and he just accepted that it was the explanation. Maybe he could relate? She frowned down at his chest until he touched her under the chin. “Do you still love him?” His voice was soft, a low murmur, his eyes searching her face in the darkness. She had no idea what he could see there. 

“No! Fuck, Alistair, that’s… did you even hear him tonight? He thinks I’m a broken, dangerous thing. That’s what a saarebas is in Qunlat. He doesn’t trust me. Maybe he never did?” She would always care what happened to Fenris and she regretted the hurt that they both felt, but no. Her feelings no longer contained enough openness, enough trust to be called love. She shook her head sharply. “I’m not… no. I have enough bullshit rattling around in my head. I can’t fucking carry his around too. I won’t.” 

The half-sketched shape of Alistair’s mouth curved into a soft smile, and his arms slid up over her hips. They circled her waist and drew her closer until she climbed up to straddle his lap. “Of course I’ll stay.” 

Something about the tone of his voice, the place it came from, deep in his chest made her twist inside like she had needed him to say that, exactly that. That he would stay, stay for her, want to stay. She kissed him again, hard, hands pressed to either side of his face, fingernails digging into his scalp behind his ears just a touch. She was pressing down on him, touching everywhere she could, hips shifting over his, and fuck it was like a sudden madness this wanting. 

His hands closed on her wrists, drawing them away from his face slowly and then pushed her gently back.She watched him swallow several times and take a deep breath. “Are you… you were hurt and… water? Rest?” He was watching her mouth as she licked her lips, rocking her hips against him again. “Caralyn, if you don’t stop I won’t…” 

“Ever be able to complete a sentence again?” She lowered her head to nip at the knuckle of his forefinger where it closed around her wrist. 

“Let me…” When he released her hands they immediately went to the front of his trousers and began tugging at the laces. “Maker’s breath, woman! You are going to drive me mad.” He pulled his knees up, pushing her against his chest and then stood, leaning against the boulder as he rose. He disentangled himself from her and set her on her feet, shifting them so that she was at his arms’ length, safely outside her reach. “Stop. Stay there.” 

She lifted her chin and opened her mouth to protest, a hand coming up to catch his when he let her go. He grabbed her again and spun her so that her back was pressed against the boulder, body pinning hers. His hands took her arms and pressed her hands to the stone above her head, wrists crossed. “What--” 

“I said stay there. Now, your hands. If they move, I’ll stop.” 

“Is that how it’s going to be?”

His nose traced alongside hers before he nudged her to turn her head. He bit her earlobe just hard enough to make her whimper and arch and then he laughed softly. “I think that’s how you want it to be. Tell me I’m wrong.” She couldn’t. She would have happily helped herself if he’d let her when she was sitting on top of him, but pressed against the still-warm face of the boulder, trembling against him… Hawke found herself shaking her head. “Hmm. Good to know.” 

Her lips parted in a soft inhalation as he released her arms and then crouched in front of her. He wasn’t touching her at all and she looked down at him before conjuring a dim magelight when he was nothing more than a shadowy blob. He glanced up, startled by the sudden illumination and chuckled. The quirk to his eyebrow and the slight smile on his mouth made her shiver, because as pleasant, as amiable as his expression seemed she could see his eyes now and they were dark and full of want. 

The next several minutes while he looked up at her, his hands dangling between his knees where his elbows rested in his crouch, should have been irritating. Boring. Boring and fucking frustrating. And maybe they were a little frustrating but she found herself aching, pinching her thighs together, damp, desperate for him to touch her. But she kept her hands where he’d placed them, eventually closing her eyes and tipping her head back. She couldn’t look at him while the color climbed in her cheeks and her knees started to quake. She was barely able to stand because of the tension of waiting for him to reach out, for his fingers to find her aching spaces. “Please.” It was a tiny whisper, barely slipping out of her lips before she bit the top one sharply. 

Alistair’s hands were immediately on her, running up her thighs to the laces of her trousers, pulling them apart sharply, her hips jerking towards him with the abrupt tugs. Once they were free he dragged them down over her hips to her knees and before she could try to kick out of them his face was buried in the crease at the top of her thigh, forehead resting on the sharp angle of her hipbone. He combed his fingers through the dense dark hair, running the back of his middle finger between her labia, dragging his knuckle over her clit. 

“Alistair, fuck. Please.” Her arms had dropped until her crossed wrists rested on top of her head and she would have ground forward against his hand if the weight against her hip hadn’t pinned her. 

He pulled away from her slightly, then lifted and ducked under her leg so that her trousers, still trapping her calves were stretched across his back. “Maker’s breath, Caralyn. The things you make me want to do to you.” He parted her with his thumbs then, running his tongue between them until she ground against it as he pressed his mouth over her clit. 

The things he wanted to do to her? Maker, the things he did do to her! She spent the next several minutes with his face spreading her, tongue filling her, writhing and scorching. Her breath was starting to come in short, keening pants when he pulled back and looked up at her. “Don’t stop. Fuck. Please. No stopping.” His hands were tugging at his own laces and while he worked them he stroked her clit idly with the flat of his tongue, teasing. 

He managed to maneuver his shoulders up through her legs, still caught inside her now-inside-out trousers. He stood, lifting her with one arm while his other fit his cock against her, and she wrapped her legs around him, tugging him closer. “No, pet, I promise, no stopping.” He pushed into her, the sensation sharp and vivid where she was still sore from the night before, but not exactly painful. It was a harsh pleasure. A sensation that towed her under, focusing all her attention to where his skin dragged against hers, the places he pressed and filled and she buried her face into his neck to gasp, high and shocked. 

It should have been brutal, fucked against a boulder on a rise above the Bone Pit. It would have been but for the way he wrapped one arm across her back and cupped the back of her head while the other supported her ass, holding it away from scraping against the stone. She only felt him as he held her, suspended. 

The annoyance of the clothes between their chests, the boots and trousers tangled around her ankles, the sweat and dirt that still clung to them in places, her own blood that she still smelled of… all of it was lost and it was only him pushing and pulling, a tide inside her, rising and goading and demanding she meet him, that she follow until she was sobbing her breaths, trying to find his mouth. 

When her teeth clicked against his, catching her lip between, tongues tangled around the sting, she screamed as she came. He let go with her, in that moment nothing soft or gentle in him. Every part of him was hard, arms, cock, his mouth on hers, all of it fierce, a riot of want, of demands, and she gave what she could, what she had. 

For a moment after she thought she was falling and her arms, so long forgotten above her head, flashed around his neck. But they were sinking together, him down to his knees, still holding her close, still twitching inside her. His kiss became tender and lingering as they came to rest and he broke it to murmur, “Now that I have met your wicked demands will you drink more water and rest?” 

She nodded, wordless and breathless against his forehead, before laying her head on his shoulder. Sleeping here seemed reasonable, in his arms, his cock slowly softening and slipping out, sweaty and awkward, half-dressed in the dirt. “You could ask me for any fucking thing you wanted right now and you pick sleeping?” 

He laughed softly as he tipped her back in order to disentangle himself from her legs and trousers. “Plainly you are ready to give me countless forbidden delights while you fall asleep in a gravel pit.” 

“Shut up.” He helped her right her trousers while he continued to chuckle. 

“Such a charming young lady you are.” There was shifting, a water skin pressed into her hands, and then she was pulled closer to him while he leaned back against the boulder.

After a long drink she answered, “Fuck you. You love it.” 

She rested against his chest, clothes back in the proper places, if soiled and somewhat sticky. She sighed and curled tighter against him, warm and safe in the dark and the silence with only the skies full of stars above them. She was drifting easily, on the edge of sleep as she listened to his heartbeat and his breath, his arms solid as he held her a little harder against his chest. 

Hawke was slipping down into sleep when Alistair’s lips pressed against the top of her head and he breathed, “I actually really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need some feedback on the smushy feelsie side of this relationship. Too much? Not enough? Caralyn's refusal to connect the dots due to her low emotional IQ bothersome or believable? Alistair's deep, years-long-loneliness coming to an end by letting himself fall for the crazy-pants faster than he should working or not? 
> 
> I've lost perspective. Halp!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke runs around a lot, Alistair has next to no lines, and lots of things go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence ahead, canonical minor character death, and lots of swearing. Because Caralyn.

_Messere Hawke,_

_The request that you posed when last we spoke in regards to foreign influences interfering in your affairs has been processed. It will interest you to know that those parties have been invited to leave Kirkwall no later than 24th Solace._

_There was a substantial objection and no small amount of negotiation attempted to dissuade the Viscount’s office from issuing this interdiction. Due to the strenuous nature of said objections Guard-Captain Vallen has been informed of the situation and apprised of the deadline._

_It is always the Viscount’s pleasure to assist his friends with such complicated problems, especially in light of your own friendly assistance with the current political climate and the effects that has had upon his family. If you are free to speak with him about this matter, he would hear from you at your earliest convenience._

_~Bran Rees, Seneschal of Kirkwall_

Hawke tapped the parchment against the palm of her hand once she was done reading. Maker’s cock, if the Viscount was in such a fucking hurry to pick a fight with the Arishok over Saemus becoming viddathari, he should have gone his own damn self. Still, it seemed Bran had made good on her request to get Bann Teagan out of Kirkwall, and if the tail they had picked up just inside the city gates was any indication, Teagan was feeling the pressure. 

Easy enough to keep Alistair close for the next two days, and after that? She glanced over to where he was chatting amiably with Bodhan about repairs to his splintmail. He wouldn’t be completely safe exactly. But if the Queen of Ferelden really wanted him she could to issue a formal request to the Viscount, and Kirkwall would probably require Ferelden to come collect all its fucking castoffs. Her majesty wants an exile? Come get the lice-riddled pile of refugees and pick through them.

Or work through the Coterie or Carta. And Varric could handle things from that angle. She rubbed her forehead as she considered the safeguards and contacts that she could put in place, glad that Varric had cultivated so many of those relationships in his efforts to keep Anders out of trouble. It wouldn’t be cheap to counteract any contracts they might be offered, but she had the coin. Of course she might just send some other noble or agent who wasn’t going to do any better than Teagan. If she wanted competence there were Crows, and if they came calling, that would certainly be trickier, but she could increase the wards around the estate. Was she really planning for him to live here? Just like that? Two days ago he wasn’t sure if she’d become a blood mage, she’d scooped him up in her wake, and now she was ready to play house with the man? 

Maybe it was asinine, but she couldn’t deny the fingers of panic that closed around her heart at the thought of him disappearing on her. 

The Qunari thing should happen now in order to keep the Viscount happy and the order to vacate Kirkwall in place. She tucked the Seneschal’s letter into the pile that required a response and found Alistair walking toward her, a quizzical smile playing around his mouth. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Are you serious?” Hawke rolled her eyes up at him and shook her head. 

“Ah, well, maybe that was a stupid question.” His smile deepened a little and his hand came up to brush hair off her cheek. Her skin felt warmer under his fingers and she caught his hand against her face with her shoulder. “So, what sort of trouble have you managed to stir up?” 

She straightened and pushed his hand away. “I don’t stir up trouble. It just fucking falls in my lap.” 

“Such lies you tell, Cara.” Anders was crossing the receiving hall, heading for the stairs. He paused and cast a significant glance at Alistair. “You stir up trouble. You shake and prod and stomp on the toes of trouble. I think you may have set fire to a forest just to make sure there’s no place trouble can hide from you. You have a positively proprietary relationship with trouble.” 

Alistair grinned, looking almost boyishly pleased with himself as he listened to Anders. “Should I be offended? I feel like I should be offended. I think the possessed apostate that lives in your house just implied _I_ was trouble.” 

Hawke snorted and pointed from one of them to the other. “Ten minutes to clean up then we’re going to the Qunari compound.” There were mutinous grumbles all around, including from her own muscles, stiff and heavy with residual fatigue from horrible spider bites, but there was no time for a full bath. A quick wipe down and new robes and they were off.

And of course, the whole thing was a bigger clusterfuck than she was expecting. First, Saemus wasn’t at the Qunari compound. There was a small bubble of confusion that he’d been summoned to the Chantry of all places by his father, and that would never happen. No, it screamed of Mother Petrice. 

It was getting on dusk when they made their way up from the Docks into Lowtown proper, and Hawke was burning to get to the Chantry as soon as possible. The streets of Lowtown were already cast in shadows but the top of the building across the way was still caught in the last of the day’s light. Something on the roof reflected it, and suddenly she was shoved down and away. She hit the cobbles hard, scrapes stinging the palms of her hands. 

“What the fuck?” Hawke pushed herself up to her knees and looked up at Alistair as shadows detached from the surrounding alleyways and a variety of weapons were leveled at them.

A crossbow bolt protruded from Alistair’s chest, a few inches under his right collarbone. It would have gone through her eye if he hadn’t shoved her aside. It wouldn’t shock her normally to be targeted by one gang or another, even if the Dog Lords didn’t usually come out until well after dark. She could hear snarling and baying as Alistair struggled to get his shield oriented, and Anders dragged her to her feet. 

There was a rhythm to fighting with people for years. Certain sequences of movements, spells, actions that felt choreographed. It was a dance that Hawke led. When the sucking well of gravity dragged three dogs and six men out of the shadows and across the cobbles into the open, it was automatic for Anders to draw up a blanket of ice to hold them still. Then together it was lightning and fire raining from the sky. 

The ambushers lasted seconds, the smell of burned leather and hair filling the street. Hawke looked up to the roof where she’d seen the flash, where the crossbow had been fired from, and she caught a glimpse of the attacker’s profile, pinched and weedy, Teagan’s poisoner. 

“I will feed that fucker’s cock to a nug and make him eat the shit.” She started in the direction the poisoner had gone, drawn up short and angry by Anders’ sudden shout. 

“Hawke, it hit his lung.” 

“What?” She turned and saw Alistair bent over, hand around the bolt that protruded from his chest, blood on his lips. “Fuck. Maker’s poxy prick.” She moved to touch his shoulder, his face, looking up into his eyes, bright and a little glassy with pain. “Anders?” 

“Nothing I can’t handle, sweetheart. It is barbed though, so I need supplies and I don’t think he’ll make the walk all the way home, or to the clinic.” 

“Okay. Varric’s. He’ll have potions and knives and… He can come with me to the Chantry. Maybe… fuck. Fucking Isabela. She’d better be there and she had better be ready to _carry_ me to the shitting Chantry if I ask her.” The pirate was currently on Hawke’s list, and the only way currently off that list was to be useful.

Alistair tried to speak, but instead just wheezed heavily, the sound wet and ragged.

Anders pulled one of Alistair’s arms over his shoulders and Hawke took his other hand. She sent a brief pulse of healing into him, to ease the pain and push some of the blood filling his lung back where it belonged, let him breathe enough to get to the Hanged Man. Anders would need his strength for repairing the lung once the bolt came out.

They made it, just barely and Isabela was there, on the stool at the end of the bar looking bored. Surly. When she saw the three of them her eyes widened slightly and she hopped up, her sway only slightly hurried. “That looks less than ideal, Hawke.” 

“You think?” Hawke narrowed her eyes as she looked her friend. They were friends right? Varric had given her the gist of the fireworks from the previous evening, ending with Isabela and Fenris leaving together after Anders and Merrill had taken the two of them to task. “Look, can we stow the bullshit? Alistair took a bolt that was aimed at my head. I have to get to the Chantry because of the Viscount’s kid and the fucking Qunari. I just…” 

Isabela followed them up to Varric’s door, a droll smile, insouciant and lazy on her mouth. But her eyes were hard, flinty and sharp, focused on what Hawke was saying. “If you want me there, you know I’ll watch your back, sweet thing. Or your front.” 

“Yeah. I… fine. Yes, but no more fucking with me. I can’t…”

Varric was seated at a desk, writing out longhand notes on a sheet of paper. Irritation at the intrusion was chased away by his surprise and he jumped up. “Well, I can’t leave you kids alone for an afternoon without somebody getting poked full of holes. What in the void happened, Hawke?”

“Teagan sent a fucking ambush.” 

“I thought they wanted to get him back to Ferelden, not punch holes in the guy?”

Anders glanced sharply at her. “It was Dog Lords.” 

“The guy with the crossbow was Teagan’s. The one I knocked out downstairs.” Hawke ran fingers through her hair, pulling two handfuls of it at the back of the head, letting the pain ground her, give her focus for a moment.

“Well, it wasn’t Alistair they were shooting at.” Anders helped him scoot up onto the big stone table. “They were trying to kill Hawke.” 

Her hands shook as Alistair was laid out on Varric’s table, the shift in position causing him to cough up blood that sprayed down his chest. “Anders?” There was thin, reedy note in her voice, one she didn’t recognize but she could feel the spike of worry that went along with it. 

A hand rested gently on Alistair’s shoulder as Anders looked up at her. He smiled at her, all confidence and warmth. He was already setting out a sharp knife, two lyrium potions and three vials of elfroot. One he uncorked immediately and pressed into Alistair’s good hand before moving to Hawke and cupping her face. “Hey, he’s fine. You go mess about with politics while I stay here and play hero with your boyfriend.” 

That made her eyes narrow and she poked him in the sternum since she couldn’t reach his hair. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I promise, Cara, he’ll be fine. Go save the Dumar brat. I have done this same procedure for you, Fenris twice, Aveline three times, even Isabela once when she was too drunk to duck.” 

“I have never been too drunk to-- oh, wait you’re right!” Isabela shifted her weight as she looked up at the ceiling, all smiles and nostalgia. “There was an awful lot of rum, and then bandits, and did I fall in rashvine that night? My ass itched like mad for days!” 

Hawke studied Anders’ face as he smirked and rolled his eyes. “Go home after the Chantry. I’ll get him on his feet and we’ll meet you there. If somebody is trying to kill you there’s no reason to run back and forth across town.” 

“So I should never leave my house at all then?” 

“It would certainly save me grey hairs.” He turned back to Alistair and put a hand on his chest, the soft blue glow of his healing enveloping his hand. His other hand waved at them. “Go on, get out.” 

She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“No, you’re going home.” Anders fixed her with a hard stare and a raised eyebrow, which she ignored. 

“Don’t let him bleed on the rug, Blondie.”

She cast one quick glance at Alistair, but she couldn’t go to him, couldn’t really look at him. If she did she would grab him and refuse to let go. She had to trust Anders. She did trust Anders. It would be fine. He wasn’t going to die, and because of that she could go deal with everything else and she didn’t have to tell him goodbye because it wasn’t a fucking goodbye. She had to go now or whatever the fuck was going on with the Chantry would just happen.

Whatever the fuck was going on at the Chantry did happen. She was too late to change anything. Saemus dead at her feet, the scent of his blood mingling with the incense. She hadn’t thought that the Chantry could become any more miserable a shithole after helping Anders kill Templars, the death of Karl, Isabela’s ill-fated duel here, the funeral for her mother that was hollow and sour. The fact that she was an apostate and this was the seat of the Maker’s will in the Free Marches. But it happened. If there was any place in the city that was less in the Maker’s sight than his fucking house, she didn’t know it. Nothing good ever fucking happened there.

When Petrice died and Elthina swanned away Isabela and Varric had to hold her back. The two rogues actually hit her in the back of the knees to drive her to the carpet and Isabela sat on her until she stopped struggling, while Varric sent for the Viscount. She would have fucking killed the Grand Cleric, fuck the consequences, if they hadn’t stopped her.

“You’re losing it, Hawke. Deep breaths. Petrice is dead and you don’t need the Templars after your sweet ass. Anders would have a stroke. A blue, glowy Justice stroke.” She wiggled a little where she sat on Hawke and purred. “Mmm. I think I have an idea for Varric’s next serial.” 

For a long time Hawke had known Petrice was trouble. It had been a few weeks since she’d been implicated in the deaths of the Qunari envoy, her fucking bodyguard holding the Grand Cleric’s personal seal. “One of your ordained clergy’s personal security retinue is fucking the city in the eye socket,” was what Hawke should have said, perhaps. It’s what she meant when she told Elthina about the seal and the deaths of the Qunari under the auspices of said seal. Everyone had nodded as if they understood that Petrice was to blame… but no one did anything.

Not one of them did one fucking thing! 

No, not Hawke either. And smelling the blood of Saemus Dumar on the carpet of the apse dais, watching Petrice crumple and twitch with Qunari arrows in her head and chest, considering the dozen or so random Lowtowners whipped into a zealous fervor that they’d killed, she knew that these were hers. These deaths were hers.

After Isabela let her up and the Viscount arrived Hawke couldn’t stop shivering. If she had gone to the Arishok before the Bone Pit would all of this have been avoided? The man’s raw voice claimed it was his failure, but she knew. These deaths definitely were hers. 

She was silent, trembling and cold despite the warmth of the night as Isabela and Varric walked her home. She saw them exchange occasional glances, but whenever one of them seemed about to speak she would grit her teeth and walk faster. The only things that were cluttering her head were images of Saemus’ body soaked in blood and Elthina’s inability to muster more than a sort of wry disapproval for what Petrice had done in her name. 

At her front door she rested her head against the carved wood for a moment, wishing that someone would take all of this shit from her. She didn’t want it, certainly didn’t need it. Who was she and why was she doing this? No reason to stay. She could pack up and leave and never look back at Kirkwall… except she had made promises to her friends, and she would never be able to get Anders out while Meredith remained in the Gallows. She sighed and then turned around to the rogues who were waiting. City of Chains. Fucking Kirkwall. “How much shit am I in for letting the Viscount’s kid die, Varric?” 

“You didn’t let him die, Hawke.” Varric looked up at her, grimace troubled and eyes searching. 

“If I’d gone yesterday…” 

“He was still warm, sweet thing.” Isabela’s voice was a soft murmur, sympathetic. It seemed so out of character after all the bullshit with Fenris, but there had been her warm hands washing Hawke’s hair and singing, cutting through the fog of grief. Hawke wasn’t even sure how to read her right now. “They didn’t kill him until they knew you were coming. This wasn’t about him, it was about making sure you were there to finger. As plans go, it wasn’t particularly savvy.” 

“I… Fuck. I need…”

“You need to go inside, Hawke. Pour yourself a drink. And try real hard not to think about what kind of shit the city is in with the Arishok while the Viscount gives up.” 

“Right. That helps a ton, Varric. Thanks.” Hawke turned away from them and let herself inside. It was dark within, Bodhan and Orana asleep, no fires lit in the summer heat. It had been two hours, maybe a little more, since she’d left Alistair and Anders at the Hanged Man and they should be back now, shouldn’t they? Unless something went wrong. She trotted upstairs and poked her head into the bedrooms. No one. The kitchen was equally empty. So, still at the Hanged Man? 

Her hands were shaking as she went back downstairs. If something had gone wrong, if Anders didn’t have enough lyrium, if Alistair wasn’t healing correctly... Fuck, what if the bolt had been poisoned? Anders had told her to stay here, but fuck him. She wasn’t sure if she was full up on bloody death for the day. It wouldn’t be so bad to kill anyone who tried to accost her. At least she’d know they deserved it. And she could help. If there was a complication, she had enough healing to help. She stuffed her pouches with more lyrium potions, just in case.

She opened her front door and walked back out into the square. It was silent, empty of people, dark. She angled toward the Lowtown stairs that would take her closest to the Hanged Man, walking briskly, wondering if she would catch up Varric and Isabela before they reached the inn. 

As she reached the stairs three men with a massive mabari broke out of the shadows and stepped toward her. She didn’t pause before pulling her staff from the the sling on her back with a flourish. She hit them with a wave of force that knocked two of them men off their feet and sent them tumbling down the stairs. Without breaking stride, she laughed, a ringing laugh that echoed off the bricks around her. “Oh, Maker, how many morons do I have to kill today? If any of you are alive down there, run and tell Teagan if he keeps sending men they'll keep fucking dying.” 

The third man and the dog with him both fell boneless, asleep, and it wasn’t long before the man started twitching and screaming. She paused at the top of the stair, seeing one of the first to fall staggering to his feet. As she drew deep on her power, tasting the Fade, sharp and scorched on the back of her tongue, she felt a shift in the air behind her. 

The bite of a knife scoring through her robe and down the skin over her shoulder blade happened at the same moment she blasted her attacker away. She spun to see a man picking himself up off the ground, and brought her staff up in front of her. The pain in her back was brilliant, bright and sudden as she tried to release the lightning that always seemed just below the surface of her skin. Her ears rang and it flashed out, but didn’t reach him. 

“That won’t get you anywhere right now, darlin.” She swung the staff at him, sweeping it toward his legs while she took a step back toward the stairs. He laughed and sidestepped the blow. The world wobbled and she shook her head, trying to clear it, but it only seemed to get worse. 

When she swung the staff again it connected, but there was little force left in her numb fingers. He closed a hand around the weapon and jerked forward. Her hands were clenched on the grip and in her surprise she followed the motion as he slashed with the knife in his hand, catching her forearm where it extended toward him. 

The burning from both wounds was maddening and her ears started ringing louder almost immediately. She reached out to let the lightning boil off of her, catch the man in a curtain of it, but there was nothing. Only the barest flicker. A third sting, sharper, larger, as another cut ran parallel to the first on her forearm and she finally released the staff. She turned, ready now to run for her life, run from the burning, but her whole consciousness seemed bound by it and the world went gray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. I started it three times over the past week. It is a bit of a plot bridge to the next section of angst, so I hope ya'll enjoyed the squooshieness of the chapter before. It'll be a while. 
> 
> Also, I'm attempting to be more active on my tumblr, so if anybody wants to follow me over there, delazeur.tumblr.com is me. You can watch me post headdesk gifs while I struggle in the middle of the night to make words do word things.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders has a bit of an episode, Alistair drinks morosely, and everyone is mostly waiting for what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to remind myself that exiled Alistair really does have some self-worth hangups. Um, sorry for the gloomies!

The waiting was terrible. 

It was similar to when he’d lost track of Caralyn after her mother died, and he spent a couple of weeks wondering what in the void had happened to her. But worse. Worse for knowing that wherever she was her friends weren’t there to look out for her. Worse for the creeping certainty that whatever had happened, it was probably down to her association with him. 

Alistair had spent the last two days talking to any of his mercenary contacts who would listen (there weren’t many, but no one had tried to claim any outstanding bounty on her from the surviving lieutenants of the Red Iron). Varric and Aveline tugged strings in Hightown and Low, Isabela sweet-talked Caralyn’s brother just to be sure she hadn’t been carted to the Gallows, and Anders asked the urchins that Caralyn paid to keep watch for Templars in Darktown if they’d seen anyone suspicious around. 

So far, it had been a lot of nothing. Teagan had stayed in his inn until the ship he’d booked passage back to Denerim on had made ready to sail, but no cargo nor passengers went with him. He’d made no efforts to contact Alistair before departure, which Alistair thought was suspicious, and the accusing looks the others shot him seemed to agree. 

It was after dark, six hours after Teagan’s ship had sailed, and he sat in Caralyn’s library, unshaved, haggard, and wrapped around a glass of whisky. 

Bodhan, Sandal, and Orana had welcomed his presence as if it were planned, as if this were all normal, and if this was their definition of normal he needed to find a dictionary because he was sure he’d been getting it wrong for years. He looked up as he heard hard footsteps in the hallway and the door crashed open, drawing him to his feet with a start. 

Anders was standing there, only it wasn’t entirely Anders, it was Anders plus one, all blue and glowing and lips peeled back from his teeth in rage. “You are the cause of this.” His voice was huge, too big for the body of the thin man it issued from. It came from _beyond_ him, and sent chills shuddering along Alistair’s limbs.

Alistair hadn’t seen him since the previous afternoon, and even then it was obvious his control was fraying. He had made several rants, contrary to all evidence, that they should be razing the Gallows instead of standing around. When it was pointed out that neither Carver nor Cullen had seen Caralyn he’d fled to his hovel of a clinic in Darktown and stayed there. Now he was standing just inside the library with spirit fire licking through the seams of his being, blazing from his eyes. 

The spirit seemed murderous, and that was terrifying, but it was also hard to argue with the accusation when he believed it. “Did Varric find something? Or you? Is she…?” He couldn’t finish that question, couldn’t ask if she was hurt, or dead. If she was he would let the enraged spirit enact its vengeance, its justice, anyway, so wouldn’t it be better to die without knowing for sure? 

The lanky frame of Anders’ borrowed body crossed the library in three long strides, all coiled power in a predatory stalk. The buzzing from his leaking energy hit Alistair just before the hand closed around his neck and lifted him from the ground. The only time this had ever happened to him before, it had been an ogre lifting him, feet dangling, eyes bulging out of his head. This sensation was similar, without all the darkspawn stink, rotting meat and dank slime. Instead it was lightning and hot metal and the incongruous earthiness of elfroot. He was dangling inches from the carpet, held by a man who was two inches shorter and six stone lighter. 

“Oh, shit, Anders!” The shout from the doorway was dimly heard past the rushing in Alistair’s ears. He pried at the spirit-possessed hand, kicked ineffectually at him, but he had no leverage and his strength didn’t seem to really bother the spirit. He was also flagging rapidly. “You can’t kill him. He’s all we’ve got to bargain with.” 

“Anders does not understand that this Chantry dog is a threat to both Caralyn and himself.” Justice’s voice was like a bell that pierced through the fog that was descending on Alistair’s brain. “I will end this threat and kill everyone who touched her.” 

The implication that she was alive, that it was in fact his fault she was missing, and that if he was dead it would make things bad for her, not to mention his being dead wasn’t ideal… it finally penetrated his wavering consciousness and he closed his eyes. He coiled close the fear and anger at her disappearance, the terror that he’d felt when they had arrived to find her house empty after tripping over dead bodies on the stairs from Lowtown. He forced all the worry into the heart of his training and let the smite erupt from him, hoping it would disrupt the spirit that held Anders’ hand clenched around his throat. 

It did, more than expected, perhaps because Anders was already trying to reassert himself. Well, Alistair could hope that Caralyn’s closest friend didn’t actually want him dead, at least. What it amounted to was both of them crumpled on the floor, tangled together, with Anders clutching his head and moaning while Alistair rubbed his neck and coughed. 

“Andraste’s ass, Blondie, are you okay?” Varric shuffled to where Anders was struggling to sit up, booted feet kicking free of Alistair’s legs. He leaned down to put a hand on the mage’s feathered shoulder. 

For his part, Alistair was busy gasping and choking air down, stars sparking all over his vision as the blood flow resumed its normal course. He grunted as one of Anders’ feet caught him in the knee as he pushed away. 

“Y-yes. What… what happened? Are we back at…” He trailed off, shifting to look around him, eyes widening when his gaze caught Alistair’s. “Maker’s breath. Justice…” He buried his face in his hands for a moment and then jerked them down, eyes blazing, but not with spirit fire, just the normal burnished gold in the brown as he snapped, “I’d offer to take care of that for you, but seeing as I seem to have been drained of mana by a _smite_ my services aren’t currently available.” 

It took Alistair a moment to gather the breath to mutter, “Well, I think I can live with a few bruises on my neck instead of blood gushing from it because you’d popped my head off with your manly spirit grip. I’m going to call it a win.” His voiced sounded wrecked, rasping and it hurt to push air through his vocal cords. He frowned and pushed himself up and into the chair he’d vacated when Anders burst in, elbows on his knees, watching the others warily. “So, was strangling me a whim, or was there some news?” 

The expression that crossed Anders face changed from sour and angry to something softer, hollow eyed as he stared at the floor between his feet. At first Alistair would have called it worry for Caralyn, or whatever news they’d received, but there was something shaky about the way he knotted his hands together and the occasional spasms that crossed his features were full of disgust. Varric patted Anders’ shoulder lightly again, and then took a chair as well. 

“There’s been news. Dog Lords. We, well by that I mean ‘I,’ finally found someone who knew something about your charming Fereldan friend with the crossbow. Seems he hired a few of their members to ambush Hawke outside the Qunari compound. As near as my contact knew, the idiots thought if they killed her they’d have an easier line on you.” Varric leaned back in the chair, tenting his fingers in front of his face and watching Alistair out of the corner of his eyes. 

“So you’re saying that by saving her life I made them abduct her?” 

“I’m saying, new guy, that if she’d never brought you home like a little lost puppy you wouldn’t have needed to save shit.” Varric took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before resuming. “Look, I like you fine, and she likes you more than seems sane. You did her a turn with Meeran and the mess with her mother, so I get that there’s scales and balances that haven’t quite squared yet.” 

“What? No. No scales, no balances. I… do you honestly think that I…?” He was sputtering, angry, and he stood up suddenly, fists clenched. “I owe her more than… No, not even that. It isn’t about owing anything. I--” He cut himself off, another cough wracking his battered throat, before he could say anything embarrassing that he couldn’t take back, anything that he certainly shouldn’t be saying to these two before he said it to Caralyn herself.

Anders broke his silence with a snort. “Oh, come off it, Alistair, you’re in bloody love with her.” He pushed himself up to his feet and arched his back with a grimace, working out some twinge that collapsing gracelessly on the floor had given him. 

“What? I. No. Well, yes, but don’t say it like you know anything about it.” He rounded toward the mage, heat in his skin, anger, embarrassment, he wasn’t sure which was which, but instead of disdain or accusation in Anders’ eyes they seemed kind, belying the smirk his lips wore. 

“Yeah, Blondie here wouldn’t know anything about it.” Varric waved a hand with a roll of his eyes. 

“Varric--” 

“Enough. What are we doing? If we know that they tried to kill her to get to me, does that mean she’s dead?” Alistair’s voice cracked painfully and he cleared his throat past the fierce ache there. It was starting to swell, and he imagined he had an impressive set of fingermarks starting to welt against his skin. 

As he turned toward the dwarf he felt warm fingers brush the back of his neck and the cool pulse of a healing spell took away the worst of the pain. It was a weak, pitiful thing, impressive only in how quickly Anders had recovered any mana at all, but just the contact was comforting. Hopefully it meant he wasn’t suddenly sworn enemies with the mage, regardless of what the spirit inside him wanted. 

“No, she isn’t dead. What I think, is Serah Crossbow figured out if you were willing to die for her, you’d sure as shit be willing to play the game that they want you to play for her.” Varric’s eyes shifted between Alistair and Anders with a slight quirk to one of his brows. “We know she wasn’t on the boat with Teagan. So, I think that it won’t be long until they send a message to let us know what they want. The question is: do I know enough of the right people to figure out where they’ve got her before the message comes, so we don’t have to play this by their rules?” 

“You think they’ll hurt her?” The ache that thought caused in Alistair’s chest made his stomach flip and he took a deep breath to settle it. He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes fixing into the middle distance between him and Varric, refusing to look at either of Caralyn’s friends. 

“I think the longer she’s there the worse for everyone. The more likely she’s going to try something crazy and they’ll be less gentle the crazier she gets.” Varric shook his head. “And with Hawke, that is going to ramp up pretty damn fast.”

“So the plan is to trade me?” No refusal, no accusation. It seemed like the most reasonable plan they had available. 

“No!” The vehemence that Anders spoke with was shocking, and Alistair’s sharp glance was caught by his fierce gaze. “No. The plan is for Varric to prove he’s as good as he says he is, figure out where they’re going, catch up, kill all the bastards that we find her with, and bring both of you home safely.” 

Home. Was that what Kirkwall was? Was that what this estate was? He couldn’t figure Anders out, first the spirit-strangling, then the snapping, then the healing, and now this word hanging out there. Home. When had Alistair ever really had a home? A few months with the Wardens. The tent he shared with Elissa during the Blight. Neither of those really held all the weight and warmth that the word meant when he thought of Caralyn. 

“Right, that would be the plan.” Varric pointed a finger at Alistair as he stood. “Yours is the backup plan. I’m going to head back down to the Hanged Man if you think you two can play nice for the night. I’ll check in soon.” 

“Thank you, Varric.” 

“Aw, you’ll make me blush.” He sobered for a moment, but it was short-lived, broken almost immediately by a slow grin. “Thank me when we get Hawke back. Which means I want details about the torrid clinches when she reunites with the two of you.” 

“Don’t, Varric. You know--” Anders shifted, his feathers ruffling. 

“Oh, please, Blondie. I know a lot of things.” He cocked an expressive but somehow inscrutable eyebrow at Alistair and then shook his head, his short legs carrying him out of the library. 

The silence that settled between them was heavy. Alistair looked down at his abandoned drink on the low table near his chair and then went to the sideboard and poured another. He held it out toward Anders without meeting his eyes. The long, ink-stained fingers took the glass and Alistair retreated to his chair, lifted his own glass and sipped. 

“I should have just gone with Teagan.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

Alistair tried to find the accusation in the question, but really it was only a question. He stared into the liquid in the glass, the same color as the eyes that were peering at him. Anders took the chair Varric had used. “Well, the invitation that Elissa sent wasn’t quite pretty enough. Cheap parchment. Not nearly enough gold-leaf. If I’m going to go scampering back to her she could have at least put in some effort.” 

“Well, she wouldn’t want you to think you were important, or anything.” 

“Right. If I were important there’d be soldiers or Antivan Crows or attempted murders and kidnappings. Wait, those last two sound familiar.” The bitterness that bubbled up in Alistair’s throat mixed well with the residual pain and he grimaced, taking a large drink of his whisky, and then coughed against the burn in the stinging tissues. 

There was a soft sigh from Anders and he watched Alistair over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. “Sorry about the strangling, by the way.” 

“I don’t know. I think I probably deserved it, all things considered. I could have gone back to Ferelden like a good Warden, or exiled bastard, or whatever it is they want me to be, but…” 

“She really didn’t want you to go.” 

That made Alistair’s ears heat, and for all Anders and Varric had more or less decided he was probably definitely in love with Caralyn, which if pressed he wouldn’t argue with, he found it a little overwhelming to think she felt similar things in similar volumes. “Yes, well. More the fool her.” 

“I don’t think so.” Anders smiled a little, wan and sad as he gulped the rest of his whisky in one go and then made a terrible face, hiccoughed and then wheezed for a moment. When he continued his voice was rough with the drink. “Aside from kidnapping and mortal peril, you’re good for her. And there isn’t a-one among us that hasn’t put her in mortal peril for some ridiculous reason.” He tilted his head as he smirked over at Alistair, a little of the sudden warmth lighting his eyes. 

Alistair, feeling his face flush with the drink and relaxing as he accepted this wasn’t going to explode back into violence, chuckled. “Well, as long as I’m not the only one.” He felt the weight of Anders’ gaze like sunlight for a moment. 

“No, you are definitely not the only one.” His expression was pensive, quiet, though his eyes stayed bright and on Alistair’s, and they both lapsed into silence. 

The silence was something Alistair, on reflection, probably wallowed in a bit. He wasn’t sure what to say other than _I’m sorry_ , but he couldn’t quite formulate that lie. He was sorry Caralyn was in danger, but he was finding it hard in his selfishness to be sorry he’d found himself in her life. He rubbed his face tiredly, letting his fingers scrub over the stubble along his jaw. 

He opened his mouth to bid Anders goodnight but it came out a rasped grunt of pain. 

“Maker, Justice really did almost crush your windpipe, didn’t he?” Anders shifted out of the chair and shook his hands a little, a faint frown coming over his features, adding to the angular shadows of fatigue. “You’re lucky your neck and shoulder muscles are so… developed. Otherwise…” It was sheepish, the shrug he gave instead of finishing that sentence, but underneath there was that same almost bottomless bleakness. 

“You aren’t likely to suddenly explode at me again are you?” Alistair shrank back slightly as Anders approached his chair, forcing the words out past the pain. It would be nice if he could just accept and relax in front of the possessed apostate, but the man was dangerous, and since they’d discovered Caralyn gone, he had been looking more fragile with each hour. 

“Not unless you do something stupid like claim the Circle is just or that Meredith is a shining example to all of Thedas.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Now sit forward or I’m going to wind up in your lap fixing you.” 

“Ah.” That would be awkward. He scooted forward and sat up so that Anders could touch his throat without leaning too far over him. He winced as the fingers came to rest there, but closed his eyes and waited. The buzzing of the magic again preceded the cool wash of it, and this time there was more, the bruising and the swelling receding until he could swallow without pain. 

When the magic faded Anders’ fingers lingered. Alistair looked up at him questioningly. The smile that was aimed at him wasn’t glassy and sharp-edged, it wasn’t the mean smile, the cutting smile. It was a little soft, a little lopsided. “I really thought that when Cara took up with a Templar, right, almost-Templar, I know. Anyway, I thought it was the worst idea. Justice wouldn’t approve, I would be driven away by his rage, she would be vulnerable, and you would hurt her…” His hands lifted, running up over his forehead, pushing the stray pieces of his hair back, and he turned away. “I don’t like being smited. It… reminds me of things. But I’m glad you stopped us from killing you. I don’t think I could have born that.” 

“Well, it wasn’t my ideal way to spend the evening either.” 

Anders snorted softly, and shook his head, but Alistair could only see the blond tail of his hair and the back of his coat as he wandered toward the door. “I am going to sleep. I haven’t since the Bone Pit, and… with the way you drove Justice down I think I can for a few hours.” 

When he looked back over his shoulder his eyes were dark and shadowed, and Alistair could see suddenly the rawness, the vulnerable core of the man that Caralyn was so attached to. Protective of. If he broke during their search for her, it would be as much Alistair’s fault as any harm that came to her. He nodded at Anders and offered something approaching a reassuring smile. “Goodnight. And thanks again, for leaving my head on.” 

“Well, it looks good there. It would be a shame to deprive the world of all that.” There it was, the deflection, the humor that was pasted shoddily over the pain, and Anders lifted one shoulder with a wink and then left the library. 

Alistair drank the rest of his own glass of whisky, then finished a second. He had never been a Templar, had never been able to stomach the rigidity, the dourness of their mission. The freedom that the Wardens had given him from that had been one of the best gifts he’d received in his entire life. He had learned to accept mages within their ranks, slowly during those few months he’d lived among them before Ostagar. Under Duncan’s stern gaze and ready admonishments, he had slowly given up the idea that all mages were three steps away from exploding into demony gristle at all times. 

What did any of that have to do with any of this? He slumped over his glass, prodding his worry about Anders’ outburst. Was it fear of the “abomination” or fear for him? For Caralyn if Anders was lost to his spirit? Maker, he was an idiot if he felt guilt over the spirit attacking him, wasn’t he? Or was it simply that he liked the man, couldn’t help but feel a comradery with a fellow renegade from Elissa’s command, and didn’t want to see him suffer? 

He had far too many questions to deal with. The burn of the drink in his stomach combined with the churning of his feelings until it became a confusing fizzing in his head. He needed to focus on doing what was necessary to see her safe, and reminding himself he should have known better than to try to hold on to something he wanted. The world had never really been for him. Things given only to be jerked away again. 

Well, at least he knew what that felt like, no surprises in store for him. He needed to help Anders stay sane until Caralyn was free so that she had someone to catch her. If his personal history was any judge, Alistair wouldn’t be the one at her side when she stumbled home. 

He took himself to her bed thinking dark thoughts, and wrapped in her blankets, heady with her scent, he wished he’d been clever or strong enough to just board the damn ship to Denerim with Teagan that morning. She would maybe have already been home if he had, where she belonged, and he would have done the right thing, the smart thing, for once.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke spends some quality time with her captors. She's not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains reworked bits of the redacted chapter, but with less triggery material for those of you who read it. 
> 
> I will warn for captivity, drugging, and canon-typical violence.

The world was bounded by the throbbing confines of Hawke’s skull, the hard pounding ache of her own heartbeat in her ears. It was like the worst of all possible hangovers, and as she clawed toward consciousness with a rough plank beneath her cheek she wondered how the fuck she had drank so much she passed out on the floor of the Hanged Man. But the smell was wrong, road dust and the faded scent of pine pitch, and after a moment she realized the shifting and rumbling wasn’t the world spinning from this miserable fucking hangover, it was the floor beneath her. She was in the back of a wagon?

Her eyes were sandy, hard to open, and when she tried to bring a hand up to rub them she couldn’t. Her hands were bound behind her, forearms parallel to each other across the small of her back. Everything was stiff and sore, and when she wiggled her fingers they prickled as if they hadn’t moved in hours. Maybe days? 

It was dark in the wagon, or whatever she was in. She supposed it could be just a big fucking wooden box, but that made less sense. She could hear the thumping of hooves on packed clay of an unpaved roadbed, so… definitely not in Kirkwall, and not on any part of the Imperial Highway. Fucking fabulous. 

What in the void was happening? She reached for her magic and felt nothing but dimly aching emptiness which sparked the recollection of being cut with a poisoned knife in Hightown. The Dog Lords, the rogue that she’d thought of as Teagan’s poisoner, but plainly he was more than that, better than just an apothecary with a talent for incapacitation. Because he’d snuck up on her and beat her. 

Hawke thought she might crack a tooth she was clenching her jaw so hard, anger gripping all her muscles in rigid lines. She banged her forehead onto the planks beneath her three times, a deliberate thump, as if it wasn’t too damn late to knock some fucking sense into her. 

Of all the stupid cocked up nugshit that she had ever managed to get mixed up in, this was… This was fucking embarrassing is what it was. There had only been four in the ambushers, plus the rogue. Fucking void. 

She made herself take several deep breaths, calming the pounding rage and panic that was only going to get her dislocated shoulders if she started thrashing about, and wondered when Fereldan politics had become so Orlesian. She wasn’t an expert on politics, by any means. She’d grown up a country girl, an apostate, child of an apostate. While her mother attempted to force deportment and manners upon her, and her father had explained the failings of the Chantry and the Circles, actual politics had never seemed like any of her fucking business. 

Once she and her mother had been recognized by the nobility of Kirkwall she realized that society games and gossip were the only thing they were expected to participate in. Any influence that Hawke had came from being recognized by the supremely cocked up political morass of a city where the Viscount was spineless, the Knight-Commander was grasping and insane, the First Enchanter was a boot-licker, and the Grand Cleric was probably senile. Add the Arishok into all that and it made no fucking sense. She just did the best she could. 

This though, bound and gagged, face down in the back of a wagon, head swimming with the magebane that still burned in the cuts on her shoulder blade and her forearm… well it all seemed profoundly Orlesian. Orlesian to the point of being fucking Antivan. 

She assumed that since she was tied up in the back of a wagon, stomach burning and nauseas from magebane and the slight and constant jostle of the movement along an imperfect road, Alistair was still in Kirkwall. She hoped. She didn’t want these lunatics anywhere near him, and hopefully Anders would keep him from doing anything rash. 

The laughter that rasped out of Hawke at that thought was wild and gut-clenching. Anders keep anyone from doing anything rash? She squeezed her eyes closed against the tears that stung them as she laughed helplessly, hysterically into the boards under her face, and it wasn’t long before the tears were just leaking as her shoulders shook and she couldn’t figure out if it was laughter or sobs or silent screams of frustration that gripped her. Anders stood a better than even chance of getting himself killed or captured by Templars, and Alistair was probably going to do something profoundly fucking stupid like hand himself over to Teagan as soon as they realized she was gone. 

How long had she been gone? Long enough that she was uncomfortable in every way she could think of from lying on her stomach unmoving for hours at a time. 

The wagon hit a rut, jarring her out of her thoughts and she held very still as she listened to voices muffled around her. After another ten minutes or so the movement halted and shortly after that there was a rustling and cooler, fresher air filtered in as the canvas cover was rolled back.

“Boys, get her down. Watch her feet and her teeth.” 

The bed of the wagon shifted and dipped as someone climbed up into it and after a moment a rough, gloved hand smelling of horse pushed her hair back out of her face. “She’s awake!” There was a panicked crack in the voice, a young man, barely more than a boy. 

“Good. That means she hasn’t gone and died in the middle of the night. Bring her down, I said.”

The boy grabbed her by the shoulders and with an awkward hitch helped her up onto her knees. She went docilely enough because if she tensed up to fight she thought she’d piss herself, and she needed a drink of water desperately. Once she was kneeling he hooked a hand under her arm and pulled her to her feet. He was just her height, maybe seventeen, skinny and dirty faced. She cleared her throat. “Good to see you again, Lark, you cowardly little shit.” One of Athenril’s runners. Fereldan refugee. 

It was too dark to see the flush that colored his features, but he ducked his chin, scrawny shoulders hunching in a way that reminded her so fiercely of Carver when he was that age that she almost laughed. At least she still had it within her to intimidate teenaged boys. And also inspire deep wells of resentment. His mouth was set in an angry line as he turned her and nudged her toward the tail of the wagon. Instead of moving easily she smirked sidelong at him. “You getting paid well enough to warrant a bloody death, Lark? You know that this isn’t going to be your ticket out of anything but a shallow gra--hey!” 

She gasped when he shoved her toward the end of the wagon, her feet tangling as she staggered, lower legs only starting to sing with pins and needles as her circulation returned. She would have pitched off the end and maybe died right fucking there, the most ridiculous death she could imagine (Caralyn Hawke, apostate mage, died of a broken neck when she was pushed out of a wagon by a seventeen year old gutter rat), but the other boy was there and caught her before she could hit the ground. 

This one she knew a little better, brawny in a stringy way that meant he’d be heavy with muscles later in his life. If she fucking let him live that long. “Are you fucking kidding me, Walter?” To his credit he looked like somebody had kicked him square in the balls as he righted her, pale face wretched and he swayed as if he were trying not to fall down. Another Ferelden refugee kid, this one had been part of Anders’ protection network, one that would bring word of Templar activity in Darktown. He had a passel of smaller kids that he sheltered from the sharp teeth of desperation and poverty down there. 

He blinked slowly, his spotty, moony face looking as surprised to find him there as she was. Before he could speak the man she expected was standing next to him. “I’ll take her to piss. You lads unhitch the horses and pull the wagon around back.” 

Walter let go of her arms and she wobbled, but stayed standing, biting the inside of her cheek. She watched the man reaching for her warily and jerked back just before his fingers made contact with her elbow. “Point. I’ll walk. Don’t fucking touch me.” 

He laughed, really laughed, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever fucking heard and her throat closed for a moment, but then he nodded his head. “That way, sweetheart. Mind you don’t trip and break your fine teeth out of your pretty face.” 

It was harder than it should have been with barely any light, and the uneven ground outside the dilapidated barn, but she made it to the side of the hulking shadow of a building and stopped when he grabbed the back of her neck. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for what came next. She doubted they’d bring her all this way to kill her, but that didn’t mean things weren’t going to be nasty. 

He released her neck and removed the ropes from her forearms with rough tugs against the knots. The pain in her shoulders and elbows was astonishing as she dropped them to her sides. No fucking wonder he was untying her. She didn’t think she’d be able to make a fist, much less throw a punch that would hurt a kitten. And without her magic… she shivered slightly and tried to rub some feeling back into her arms. 

There was silence for several minutes as she flexed her arms, whimpering as she tried to raise them to shoulder height, and eventually the thin-faced rogue seemed finished waiting for her. 

“Do your necessaries.” His accent was definitely Fereldan, the rough consonants and oddly clipped vowels of the Bannorn. 

“How much is Teagan paying you? I can do better.” 

There was a flash of white in the dark as he grinned. “No you can’t.” 

She bared her teeth at him, and weighed a moment. Hawke really had to fucking piss. She gathered the skirts of her robes and dropped her smalls, crouching, one hand keeping her balanced against the wall of the barn. She met his eyes as he watched her. He was professional, and only appropriately cruel. Money hadn’t perked his interest. This was a favor? “Is it the Wardens or the Queen?” 

He chuckled, watching but not leering as she dabbed dry with a handkerchief from her pocket and then let it drop in the puddle of piss. Maker, magebane smelled bad coming out. 

“What’s it to you?” 

She straightened, cursing her wobbling knees and twitched her clothes back into place. “You’re Fereldan, working with some hired muscle and street kids but you aren’t interested in money, which I have lots of, so… which is it?”

He took a step closer to her, beckoning with his fingers. “Hold out your hands in front of you.” 

If she hit him in the knee with her heel she might be able to hurt him enough to run, but she wasn’t sure there was any place to go. “Tell me first.” She tried to gauge how long until her mana would return. She thought soon. Within the hour?

“Are we negotiating? I get to tie you back up if you get to interrogate me?” His chuckle was papery and it made her shrink back a little. 

“I’m just trying to figure out where I stand.” 

“The Wardens. Now your wrists, pet.” 

“Don’t you fucking call me that.” It made her stomach clench when he did. He took a step toward her and she darted, trying to push past him, angry and panicked and now that she had her hands she didn’t want to give them up. This wasn’t her method of combat though, and without even the mana to lace her fist with lightning when she pushed him he caught her and suddenly she was pinned, his forearm across her throat. 

“There’s no need to be unladylike. I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t give me any reason to. The Bann didn’t have the stomach for it, but I don’t care a wit and he isn’t here. If you make trouble you’ll get trouble, understand?” 

The press against her windpipe was making it hard to breathe and she knew she’d pass out if she didn’t nod and make nice, but when had she ever in her whole fucking life made nice when backed into a corner? She closed her eyes briefly and put her hands together between them. As soon as he released her neck to gather the rope she lunged forward, headbutting him as hard as she could in his mouth. She felt a gash in her scalp open up from his teeth and he squawked, staggering back, and she ran. 

When the first branch slapped her in the face unseen in the dark Hawke wondered briefly what the fuck she was doing. She was bleeding from the head, running into pitch black woods who knew how far from Kirkwall. But if she could evade, hide, for even a little longer the magebane would wear off and she’d be able to cook this asshole’s brain right in his skull. So, run, hide, wait, then kill. It was the best plan she had available to her right now. 

She was maybe thirty yards away from the barn when she tripped on something in the dark and started to fall. Her arms were too weak to catch herself and she tucked her shoulder, trying to roll in that graceful, boneless way that Isabela made look so easy, but she hit the ground all wrong and felt something pop. The blinding heat in her shoulder made her scream and it was only moments before the fucker chasing her had caught up and pushed her onto her back, sitting hard on her stomach with his knees on her arms. 

That caused her to scream again and he shook his head. “Really, pet, I warned you. It doesn’t have to be nasty.” He was only dimly seen shapes in the dark, but she could see a light approaching from the way they’d run, casting shadows their direction. 

“You got her, Topher?” 

“Yep. Bring the light.” 

It was Walter carrying the torch, still looking pale and ill, terrified as he peered down at her on the ground where tears were leaking from her eyes and she was still squirming and bucking, each attempt to dislodge Topher from her torso sending a new spike of pain into her shoulder. 

From one of his pouches he brought out a flask and a small potion bottle. He was deft as he added drops from the bottle to the flask, then from a second vial an additional few drops. He shook the small flask and then stared down at her very sternly. “You are going to drink this without fighting me, aren’t you? Because you know what will happen if you don’t?” 

“Fuck you.” 

Topher’s narrow face seemed darkly amused and he shook his head again. “If you can’t be a good girl I’m going to be rude. Magebane suppositories sting, I’m told. You want a poison mixed with rum poured into your arse, sweetheart?” 

Hawke wasn’t sure what made her roll her eyes up at Walter, watch his face twist and look away. Like the boy was going to help her, save her, from this. Topher’s fingers wrenched her face back toward his and he arched an eyebrow at her. “Nice or rude, pet?” 

She ground her teeth for a moment and then closed her eyes and let her lips part. He poured the mixture down her throat a swallow at a time, and he wasn’t kidding about it being mostly rum. Before she’d finished the flask her head was swimming from the liquor on her empty stomach, which she thought should have been burning more than it was from the magebane. She couldn’t focus her eyes together by the time he got off her, and her shoulder didn’t really hurt anymore either. 

It felt like she blinked and she was being carried back to camp over Walter’s shoulder, her hands bound in front of her like Topher had wanted, dangling, and all she’d gained from running was a set of scratches and new bruises. 

She blinked again and she was on the floor of the barn drinking water from a skin some man she didn’t know held. He was watching her with narrowed eyes, and before she could ask him what the fuck he was looking at she blinked, and the barn was filled with pale sunlight while the pile of hay beneath her itched where it poked through the fabric of her robes. By the time she was fed, dosed again, and bundled back into the wagon, her arms were retied behind her. As someone drew the canvas closed over the top of the wagon she heard jogging footsteps. 

“Walter’s gone!” That drew her back from the edge of the grey pit she’d been wavering at, and she made herself listen. Lark sounded breathless and a little panicked.

“That ungrateful shit.” It was one of the other men who responded. He was wrong. It was more likely that Walter had realized who exactly he should be grateful towards. She hoped.

“Do you want me to find him?” It sounded like Lark feared he would be blamed for Walter’s desertion. 

“No, we have to keep on. It’ll take him two full days to get back to Kirkwall. If we push we can be almost to Ostwick by then and it won’t matter. If the little bastard makes it without being murdered by bandits.” If Hawke could glean anything from his statement it was that he was unconcerned with the idea that Walter would give away his game. 

The wagon lurched into motion shortly after, the wheels rough over ruts as it regained the road. Hawke wanted to hold onto the thought Walter was returning to Kirkwall because of her, to tell Anders, to tell Alistair, where she was, that she lived, to come to Ostwick for her. But there was darkness and numbness, the rocking of the wagon, and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See me on tumblr at delazeur.tumblr.com for randomness, writing updates, and headdesk gifs.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders and Alistair spend time staring and sighing, news arrives, and several pieces of furniture are injured.

Alistair had never figured out why people stared into cold hearths. Habit left over from the majority of the year when the crackle of flame drew the eye and let the mind wander? During the summer months he knew sometimes people would place bunches of flowers or other plant… things to lighten rooms that did not need heated. But no one was buying flowers in Caralyn’s house so he watched Anders staring bleakly at the sooted stones of the fireplace in the library. It was really dismal. 

There wasn’t anything to be done about it though. Varric’s information had dried up almost as soon as he’d left the estate two days ago. None of the gate guards could recall the man that worked for Teagan or Hawke exiting. Not that anyone thought those were the only ways to exit. Tunnels, boats, any number of things. They’d spent too much time looking too hard at Teagan, which maybe had been the point the whole time? 

Since the scene the previous evening at the Hanged Man when Fenris had sunk a hand into Alistair’s chest, threatening to kill him for endangering Caralyn, he and Anders had decided to let Varric come to them. Having the elf’s hand around his heart had been horrible and he really didn’t want to revisit the sensation. 

The hours since had been tense, and largely silent, every little sound causing them both to shift toward the door as if news would finally come, but it never did. 

“What if she’s already in Denerim?” 

“And what if she isn’t?” Anders broke away from his moody glaring at the empty hearth to look at Alistair with his exhausted, wooden mask in place. “If you get on a boat now and we get word she was taken to bloody Cumberland what good does that do her?” 

“And how long do we wait?” Alistair pushed up out of his chair, his frustration pooling in his hands, making them ache to hold weapons, to hurt the people responsible. He paced to the window, looking out past the drapes at the moon that had risen fat and nearly full over the Chantry. The image of the moon, first quarter, shedding pale light over her skin, flashing in her eyes as he pinned her against the boulder above the Bone Pit, stabbed at him and he turned away quickly. “What am I supposed to do?” Maker, that sounded pathetic. It was something he had been asking someone ever since Duncan had recruited him. 

Anders rubbed his hands over his face and stood. He walked closer to Alistair, the weary lines of his face hardening, becoming cold and sharp. “You do what has to be done. You let people who are smarter than you figure out where to aim your sword before you swing it, and you don’t run off to get executed or imprisoned or whatever is supposed to be happening to you without knowing what in the void is going on, first.” 

“But they could be hurt--” 

A finger was suddenly held very close to his nose, and Anders’ jaw was set in a fierce, gritting snarl. “She could be _dead_ , Templar. Don’t you… don’t dare leave me to find that out by myself.” The wild gleam in Anders’ eyes that had seemed hateful turned soft and wet, threatening to spill down his cheeks. The spike of fury at being called Templar suddenly crumbled before it settled into Alistair’s middle. 

“No, of course… I wouldn’t…” He ran fingers through his hair and then grabbed Anders’ shoulder when he started to turn away. “She isn’t dead, Anders. She’s not and you won’t be alone.” 

The messy hair falling loose from its tie hid Anders’ face as his head bowed, still half-turned away. “Oh no, I’m never alone. Justice makes sure of that.” Bitterness and pain was what Alistair heard there, and he wondered exactly what sort of relationship the mage had with his spirit. 

Any reply that Alistair was about to make was pushed from his mind when the bell rang downstairs. Anders’ head came up and their eyes met. His golden-brown eyes full of impossible, stupid hope, which Alistair was sure mirrored his own fleeting expression. He grabbed at that hope, stuffed it down, all the way down into his boots. Then he released his handful of the other man’s shirt and they turned together toward the library door. 

Bodhan was already in the entryway by the time they reached the it and Alistair could hear a young man’s voice. 

“I wasn’t sure where to go. I looked for the healer but the lantern was out. Topher’s got her and they’re going to Ostwick and…” Bodhan stepped aside as Anders moved up next to him and jerked the door open further. “Oh. Messere, I wasn’t sure if you were here and Lady Hawke needs help and you seemed like you’d know what to do.” 

The boy was jerked inside, ragged shirt front balled in Anders’ fist and the door was slammed behind. He was bigger than Alistair had thought hearing his voice, broad in the shoulders, but too young to need to shave regularly. His eyes were wide with alarm, but every part of him looked filthy, travel stained, and bone-tired. 

“You’d better talk quickly, Walter. You said Ostwick? Why? Who is with her? Who in the void is Topher? And what in the Maker’s name were you doing with Hawke’s bloody kidnappers?” Anders’ voice sounded stretched thin, like there was more than him pressing against it, reverberating like the skin of a drum. 

“I’m so sorry, healer. I’d never gone if I’d known. Lark says his uncle from home is in town an’ there’s a job, easy, lifting, hauling light cargo to Ostwick. We was out of the city before I found out it was a lady, and they said she was sick, and I didn’t even see her until we stopped the first time, after we walked almost all night. And there was Lady Hawke and I swear, healer, I didn’t know.” The boy’s voice was quavering, nearing tears by the end, shrinking back from the thunderous glares that both Anders and Alistair were leveling toward him as he spoke. By the end Anders’ expression softened and he released him. 

“Maker, Walter. How long ago?” 

“I left them on the road day before yesterday.” 

“Have you eaten since then?” 

“No, messere.” 

“Bodhan, would you find him something? And pack more for him to take to Cricket and the little ones.” The dwarf gave a little bow to Anders’ request and hurried off. 

There were tears plain in Walter’s voice when he murmured, “Thank you, healer.” 

“Shush. Now, tell me about Hawke.” 

“She was sick. Sleeping a lot. Topher had drugs to keep her quiet, keep her…” He shifted, a glance shot toward Alistair, looking uncomfortable. “You know.” 

“No magic.” 

“Right.” His teeth closed over his lower lip and he looked down at his feet for a moment of silence. 

“Was she hurt?” Alistair had felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise as Walter fidgeted and he took a step closer, shoulders straight and set, drawn up, knowing how he loomed, how large he could seem. It was one of the things his employers as a mercenary had enjoyed about him. 

“N-not really, ser. She fell, she tried to run and she fell but she wasn’t…” He wouldn’t look Alistair in the eye and Anders had stepped back to lean against the wall, looking a little ill. 

The evasiveness was making Alistair’s head throb. “Nobody hit her?” 

“No, ser. Lark shoved her out of the wagon, and she might’ve fallen but I caught her. Her hands were tied still and…” He trailed off, looking miserable. 

“And?” Alistair wasn’t sure he’d ever heard his own voice hit that low, dangerous note before. 

“When she ran… before I left, I heard Topher say he’d give her the magebane in her arse if she didn’t quit fighting and she got all scared. I thought she might cry, and Lady Hawke ain’t a bawler. I couldn’t stay for that. The lady has been good to the healer, and helped me an’ the littles, and I couldn’t stay if they were going to do that. She took the potion right, normal like, and I carried her back to camp, and on my watch I run off.” Every word tripped over the previous, the sentences running together and by the end Walter’s eyes were pleading, fixed toward Anders, shrinking away from Alistair in fear. 

Alistair turned away, because if he looked at the boy he was going to hit him so hard it would crack his skull, and regardless of what he’d been mixed up in, he’d done a brave thing coming here after running from the job, but the thought of Caralyn bound and crying on the ground, letting them poison her, defeated… He kicked one of the chairs in the receiving hall and it flew to sticks with the force of it. He didn’t even feel the impact in his foot. 

The boy was stammering and choking on words full of fear. Alistair walked away from it as fast as he could. The black, hopeless rage that welled up inside him was a sensation he’d only felt a few times in his life before. Loghain’s betrayal. Elissa’s manipulation. Now this. He took the stairs two at a time. All he could see was Caralyn’s accusing eyes, huge and blue and shadowed with mistrust, because he had brought this to her life. He was angry at Anora and Elissa and this man Topher, certainly, but he was also murderously angry with himself. 

The waves of rage crested and receded, and each time they pulled back he found himself holding something that he didn’t remember picking up, a piece of armor, some clothing. He was packing, but it seemed so haphazard, insane. He had also broken some things. At some point he’d apparently thrown the settee against the wall, he discovered, staring at the fragments of the wooden frame and the tatters of the upholstery. 

“That was the ugliest brocade that Orlais ever dreamed of.” 

He flinched at Anders’ voice from the doorway and turned further away, staring at his hands and trying to still their shaking. 

“Alistair?” 

He shook his head in a slow, exaggerated arc, and moved toward the bed where his pack rested. 

“Are you leaving?” The question was shallow in its lightness. 

He laughed, his shoulders shaking with the harsh twist of humorless release. “Yes, I’m leaving. I have to go…” He faltered. Was he going to kill Topher? Elissa? Anora? Or to bring Caralyn home? He dragged his fingers into his hair, and gripped a handful. It was just long enough to pull. 

“Not alone, you big, ridiculous ox.” 

When he turned to look at Anders he was surprised to see the sallow tone of his skin, the red rims of his eyes. He seemed so controlled now, but no… he was upset, of course. 

“That’s me. The ox. Dumb, not a wit to rub against the grass I eat. You know, I don’t understand why you keep stopping me from throwing myself back into Elissa’s machinations. At least then, I’d be out of the way, and you’d have Caralyn all back to yourself again.” The words were sour on his tongue and he was confused about how they got there. 

“Is that what you think I want?” Anders’ voice was soft in comparison, maybe just a touch wary.

“Who wouldn’t want that? Oh wait, you’re noble and want a man’s hands on you and never have you ever wanted to kiss her, right?” Alistair wasn’t practiced at sneering. It felt foreign on his face, but he tried. “But you enjoy women? You fucked Isabela?” They both might have flinched at the unexpected profanity. “So, you’re lying. Lying, lying, lying if you say you don’t want Caralyn. How could you not? Insane? Blind? Cursed? I’m an idiot, sure, but she is beautiful, and I know you see all the bits she tries to hide with all her mad snarling. So what is it? Why are you throwing her at me?” 

Anders’ shoulders sagged slightly as Alistair spoke, and his lips practically disappeared as his mouth tightened into a thin line. “Well, cursed is probably the closest to accurate. But don’t.” 

“Don’t?” 

“That’s right. Don’t. Don’t be a jealous lover when she needs someone to save her. You’re the hero here, right? I mean, look at you. You’re definitely the hero.” There was that acquisitive, admiring tilt to Anders’ head, trying to distract Alistair from the directionless spite that was twisting his stomach. 

“But you love her.” He felt the mulish set of his jaw, knew it wasn’t reasonable, that Anders didn’t deserve it, but everything was spinning away from him, and he had never been the one who knew what needed to be done to save anything. Petty and childish, they were both things he’d been called when he was banished from Ferelden. Maybe those accusations had been true? 

“Didn’t I just say, ‘don’t’?” Anders stepped forward, into Alistair’s space, raising a hand and shoving his chest, though it didn’t rock Alistair even so far back as his heels. “Yes, I love her. Of course I love her. Everyone fucking loves her.” 

Anders’ face was a quilt of pale skin and shadowed hollows, angry and cold. Alistair raised his hand to catch the apostate’s wrist after the shove and he watched Ander’s lips part in surprise at the tight grip. There was a moment when Alistair was sure he was about to be struck by magic, or… well, anything other than a punch in the mouth seemed improbable. 

“Alistair.” He looked down at the floor between them, past the grip on his wrist and Alistair studied every flick and shift of his eyes, ever dip and quirk of his lips. “Are we going to Ostwick or not?” 

That made Alistair blink, and the taut line of tension between them snapped, and he shook his head, confused, not even sure what they were arguing for. “What? Yes. Of course we’re-- why wouldn’t we be going to Ostwick?” 

“I just needed to be sure that you were going to accept help. That you aren’t going to go alone and get yourself killed or captured.” Those luminous eyes, honey and amber, glanced down at Alistair’s hand. 

“Sorry.” Alistair let his fingers open, releasing Anders’ wrist, and he could see red fingermarks against the pale skin. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” 

Anders shook his head, tilting his head slightly to the right, before his lips twitched in a tiny, tired smile. “It would probably be in poor taste if I tried to convince you that grabbing me was definitely something you should do, wouldn’t it?” 

That made Alistair snort and he turned away, looking at the mess he’d made all over the bedroom, trying not to think about how even with his face averted, Anders could probably see the blush in his ears. “Poor taste? Yes. But, if it makes you feel better...” 

That made Anders chuckle softly, and Alistair tried to gather his wits along with his belongings. They both needed to retreat to that strange normalcy, the offbeat flirtations from Anders that Alistair had become used to. The awkwardness that Alistair no longer felt was quite so awkward. He liked Anders, he realized, and what he felt wasn't jealousy. It was envy, because he saw a future in which he was no longer in Caralyn's life, the healer was. He had to let that go, and do the hard thing, the smart thing, whatever that ended up being.

The rest of the preparations were hurried, a flurry of messages and gathering, and just before the tide turned before dawn they had a small, swift cutter outfitted and chartered to Ostwick. Crowded to the gunnels with Caralyn's companions, it was not going to be comfortable trip, but it would be a quick one, so long as the wind held. It had cost a small fortune to find a captain amenable to being turned out of her bed but with the right amount of gold, it happened and they fair flew over the light chop of the water as the dawn turned the sky grey then golden. 

Alistair was leaning against the railing near the prow, watching the dappled clouds turn different shifting colors. She would be in Ostwick when they arrived, and he would do whatever it took to see her safe. He looked down at his hands, white-knuckled around the wood he gripped. He didn’t want to be that man, the one who let someone else shoulder the responsibility at every opportunity, anymore. Anders had said he was the hero of the story? Well, he was sure he’d heard someone say that in most stories the hero dies at the end, and he hoped it didn’t come to that. But if it meant his freedom for her life? He was prepared for that sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Anders/Alistair subtext is starting to take over my brain. Now is the time to voice any strong feelings about it before I cross the event-horizon of succumbing to the pull of this OT3. 
> 
> You can find me elsewhere at delazeur.tumblr.com


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives in Ostwick searching for Hawke. Alistair and Anders wander around the city and talk. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I wanted to thank everybody who commented last time. I didn't do individual responses because I was trying to deal with my thoughts and plot bunnies more generally about the fic going forward. I did read them all, and appreciate everyone who feels intensely enough about the story to have an opinion. I'll have more notes at the end about upcoming tag shifts and things. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and sticking with me as far as you have.

Arriving at the inn Varric had found was not subtle. Or unobtrusive. Or any of the other things that Alistair had assumed they would try to be when they arrived in Ostwick. To be honest, they had about as much chance of sneaking into the city as Elissa’s old crew, possibly less, and they weren’t being followed around by a drooling mabari, a Qunari, and a golem. 

Between the white-haired tattooed elf, the beardless dwarf who talked to his crossbow, and the pirate that never wore any pants, it was a little hopeless. In this case some of the attention they wanted to avoid was possibly from Wardens, and Anders indicated as soon as they disembarked that he could feel some, distantly, but within a mile. 

Alistair had never been good at sensing other Wardens. He could feel Anders, because they were standing next to each other in the taproom room of the shabby dockside tavern, waiting while Varric negotiated rooms. But he couldn’t sense much beyond that. His strength had been types of darkspawn. The taint was a funny thing, and there were many things he still didn’t know about being a Warden. Duncan had never had a chance to teach him. Elissa probably knew lots of things about Wardens that Alistair didn’t. Well, maybe if things went as badly as he was beginning to expect he’d have a chance to ask. 

“All right, kids, we’ve got three rooms. Broody you’re with me. Daisy and Rivaini. And our handsome blond friends will share.” There was a grin on Isabela’s face that made Alistair a little uneasy, something he felt like he should protest, but really the room arrangement was the only one he could imagine that didn’t involve someone murdered or groped against their will. 

And it wasn’t as if they hadn’t been living under the same roof for days. Just not in the same room. The expression Anders was currently wearing was one of wry exasperation as he shook his head at Isabela. 

“So, the pirate and I will check with any contacts we can drum up, see if we can suss out a location. Anyone else have any other big ideas?” Varric tone was breezy. 

Alistair had done a little mercenary work in Ostwick, but not enough to have anything resembling contacts and shook his head. Anders looked pensive, his lips moving voicelessly, which maybe meant he was chatting with his spirit, or just mulling something deeply. It ended with an abrupt shake of his head. “I don’t think the underground is going to be any help here.” 

“The underground?” Merrill lifted a foot from the tacky floor of the tavern with a faint frown. 

“You know, Daisy, the underground. Blondie’s special friends.” 

“Oh, you mean the mage underground, then. You don’t think they’d help Hawke? Why not? She is a mage, after all.” There was a collective wince at her piping voice. 

Anders glanced around the tavern with a stiff set to his shoulders. “Maker, Merrill, could you say that a little louder-- no! I was… nevermind.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Unless she was taken by Templars, which she wasn’t, they wouldn’t know anything about her.” 

“I will check the alienage. There may be warehouses there they could keep her in secretly.” 

Everyone stared at Fenris until he shifted. “I spent some time in Ostwick working as a sellsword. I did not have the luxury of squatting in one of Danarius’ former residences here.” 

“So you squatted in the alienage?” 

“Mm. Yes.” 

“Or shacked up?” Isabela sidled closer to Fenris, eyes glimmering. “Did you have a special friend in town, Fenris?” 

“Does Fenris know the mage underground too then?” Merrill looked from Fenris to Isabela and then back, but other than slight sneering curl to his lip he ignored her. 

“In order to have a special one, I would need friends first, would I not?” 

“Oh, you wound us all, Broody.”

“Not all of us. I have no illusions about being Fenris’ friend, for example.” Anders waved a hand, his fingers flicking an expressive dismissal. “I’m going to see where the Wardens in town are holed up.” 

Alistair was watching Fenris’ green eyes glitter with animosity at Anders. It had been a surprise when the elf had appeared on the docks to board the ship with the rest of them, but he didn’t say anything beyond insisting he was there to see Caralyn safe. Alistair had spent most of the trp wondering if the only reason Fenris had chosen to come to Ostwick was to see if Caralyn had turned to blood magic in her captivity. 

He shuddered and nodded toward Anders. “I’m with you, then.” 

She wouldn’t. He hoped. He prayed fervently that no one had hurt her so badly she would consider it. That she knew they were coming for her. 

The room they dropped their gear in was small, and smelled of moldy straw and fish. But every bit of the city they’d seen so far had smelled of fish, so perhaps that was expected. What Alistair didn’t expect was Anders planting his lanky frame in the doorway and folding his arms. “Don’t you think it would be a better idea for you to stay here?” 

“Er, sorry?” 

“There are Wardens in town. If you’re out wandering around with me there’s a greater chance that Elissa or someone who works for her will stumble on you and then where will we be?” Anders unfolded one of his hands and brushed his fingers through the feathers on his shoulder.

“Let me think… yes, that sounds preferable. Sitting here twiddling my thumbs. Or, ooh, I could learn how to knit!” For some reason that made Anders mouth break into a lopsided, almost goofy smile, his lips just slightly parted, but Alistair was too irritated to let himself be distracted from his protest. “If I stay here, and they are better at sensing me than I am them, then before too long maybe they stumble on me here, and I won’t even be suspicious because I’ll be expecting you, when it’s not you, it’s someone else entirely.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowed just a touch. “Did that… yes, that made sense. I think. Didn’t it?” 

It felt strange, this veneer of good-humor that was pasted on top of his roiling gut, full of worry and fear for the woman that he had come suddenly to care so much for, but it also felt better to be doing something and he was not going to sit and wait in the inn. 

Anders opened his mouth to reply and Alistair held up a hand before barrelling on. “Besides, you’re in danger as well. Runaway Warden, remember? And you’re a mage on top of that, and while Ostwick isn’t Kirkwall, there are still Templars and one man in a stupid coat with a staff can certainly draw the wrong sort of attention.” 

“Does everyone have something to say about my coat?” Anders lower lip looked a little fuller than normal, just the hint of a sulk, and then he sighed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Comments about how I look stupid aside, I guess you’re right.” 

“I didn’t say you looked stupid. Just the coat.” Alistair’s hands absently checked the fittings of his armor, his shield and sword, eyes flicking over to where Anders’ hands performed the same task on his own gear.

“Mostly people only see the coat.” 

Alistair fell silent as he considered that, leading out the door and then down the steps. He supposed that had been true when he first met Anders. The feathers, all the buckles and straps, the dusty sea-blue color over the rusty brown. It was… distinctive. But now when he looked at Anders he saw the way his fingers stretched and shifted, long and often ink-stained, the way his hair was always falling out of the tie, and the way his eyes were almost always looking back, sometimes measuring, sometimes laughing, often sad. 

Once they were out of the inn Anders took the lead, and for the next two hours they wandered in ever widening circles. As it finally grew dark Alistair flicked a glance at him and said, “You know, your ability to locate other Grey Wardens is really amazing.” 

Anders wrinkled his nose and scowled, looking honestly troubled. “They know we’re here and are moving too. We’re sort of circling around each other I think. I don’t know if we should move back toward the inn or not.” He paused for a moment, eyes closed and rubbing his forehead. “They can sense me at least as far as I can sense them. Nathaniel was the only one who was this good at the Vigil.” 

“Nathaniel?”

“Nate Howe. Elissa conscripted him out of the dungeon after he was captured when he tried to kill her.” 

“She… she conscripted a Howe?” Alistair’s voice was ragged, and over-loud. The Howes had murdered her entire family, aside from her older brother, and she had… “Maker’s breath, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course she did. Pardoned Loghain the Betrayer once he took the Joining, conscripted the son of the man who slaughtered her family and everyone else who bloody lived in Castle Cousland.” He rubbed his hands over his face and as he let them fall he noticed Anders watching him with wariness and maybe a small measure of annoyance. 

“Nate wasn’t his father. It took him a while to see that, and he was good at being a Warden. Better than I ever was.”

The sensation of being selfish, short-sighted, immature washed back over Alistair. Of course Howe shouldn’t be blamed for his father’s crimes, but… he’d been there the day she’d killed Rendon Howe and he’d never thought her capable of pardoning that kind of deceit and betrayal, until she’d looked at Loghain and agreed to let him take the Joining. When Alistair refused to fight alongside such a man… she’d looked at him with such cold disdain. Loghain had been his target as much as Rendon Howe’s was hers, and she’d denied him that. 

“Alistair!” Anders’ sharp call drew his attention and he realized he’d been stalking away in a random direction. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. If there are more Wardens they’re too far away for me to sense. Hopefully someone else found something.” 

They trudged back toward the inn, any earlier sensation that things were going to go right in Ostwick bleeding out of Alistair. After several minutes of silence he glanced at Anders. The question he wanted to ask was caught in his throat and he chewed on his lip as he plodded along. 

“Well?” 

He startled. “What?” 

“You’ve got something on your mind. You’ve got this look like you’re trying to imagine what kind of person it would take to… I don’t know. Step on a kitten. So, what is it?” 

“I was, well… I was wondering why you left the Wardens.” 

Anders’ eyebrows rose and he blinked several times as they turned a corner back toward the inn. “I told you about Pounce.” 

“The cat that she made you give up?” Alistair frowned a little. That had been a glib remark, he’d thought. It certainly made him sound like a petulant child. “If you don’t want to talk about it that’s fine.” 

“No, it isn’t that. It’s… Andraste’s rosy nipples, it’s hard to describe. I was conscripted out of the grip of Templars who wanted to hang me. They thought I’d somehow killed my escort back to the Tower while I was locked in the dungeon of Vigil’s Keep and darkspawn were boiling up out of the cellars to gnaw everyone’s faces off.” He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, as he had numerous times while they’d been out, to feel the faint echoes of the taint, sorting distance and direction. Or maybe he just needed a moment to collect his thoughts. “It seemed like an amazing offer. No more Templars, my own room, I could wander around in the rain if I wanted. The darkspawn and the Deep Roads weren’t exactly ideal, but… it wasn’t altogether bad.” 

The freedom joining the Wardens offered, that was something Alistair understood. “That sounds familiar. I mean, obviously, I didn’t have Templars watching me like you did. But everything I did… well it was a judgey place, the Chantry. Everything that seemed nice or normal was wrong or sinful. Or foolish or wasteful. Joining the Wardens was freedom compared to the silence and the… disapproval of the Chantry.” 

Anders hummed softly, and it was a surprisingly agreeable noise. “You would have made a bad Templar.” 

“Thanks?” 

“I made a bad Warden because I still wanted to be free. I was freer, but there were still orders and rules and ‘no Anders, you can’t just swan off to Antiva because you’ve never seen it, we have to go slog through the Blackmarsh and get chewed on by childer grubs’.” His shudder was dramatic, almost comical, but the way the shadows pooled in his eyes Alistair could tell the memory truly bothered him. “One of the worst things about the Tower, other than getting thrown in solitary confinement for wanting to take a walk outside at night, was being treated like a perpetual child.”

Alistair couldn’t tell how serious he was being about solitary confinement, so he asked, “A child? Like ‘eat all your boiled peas’ and ‘stop wiping your nose on your sleeve’?” 

The smile that touched Anders’ mouth was stiff with bitterness. “In some ways yes. Here are meal times, here’s your curfew, here’s your room. No rights to make your own decisions. You can never marry, should never fall in love. If you have a child it is taken, and someone you truly cared about is only another leash they could control you with. You have no rights. Nothing, _nothing_ is yours, not your mind, not even your body.” The shadows in his eyes were disbursed by sudden flickers of blue and Alistair felt cold as Anders pressed a hand to his forehead, but not out of fear of Justice. Well not only fear. 

It took some resolve but he reached out and rested a hand on Anders’ shoulder and tried to shift him away from the topic of the Tower, back to the original question. “But it was different with the Wardens?”

When the mage lowered his hand it shook. He sighed. “It should have been. Could have been. But, ultimately we were the Commander’s conscripts. We were as free to leave as a mage in the Tower, and when we didn’t agree with her decisions or opinions… well she treated us like children. Like taking Pounce away. Like allowing a Templar in as a recruit and then telling me if I wasn’t doing anything wrong I didn’t have anything to worry about. If he followed me around staring at me for hours at a time? I needed to do better at getting along.” The blue flashes were back and he shook his head sharply. “I’m sorry, I can’t… Justice isn’t happy with any of this, and with Hawke gone…” 

“He’s harder to control?” Alistair hazarded. 

“Yes. Funny. At first he thought she was a distraction. Now l sometimes I think he prefers her to me. I’m the one worried about…” He stopped, biting his lip. “Nevermind. There’s the inn.” 

They made their way through the tavern to the stairs in silence, jostled here and there by the raucous crowd, but Alistair was too big to be trifled with, and he’d learned in these type of establishments, what the breadth of his shoulders didn’t discourage usually his sword would. Still, he kept a wary eye on the patrons, and when one red-bearded barrel of a man moved in front of Anders, a hand reaching for his chin, and a drunken slur about how pretty he was falling off his slobbery tongue, Alistair stepped forward.

His hand landed on the man’s sternum, above his paunch and he straight-armed him into the wall several feet away. He shot a quelling eye to the rest of the group that were laughing and elbowing red-beard, who sputtered and blinked. Anders stared at Alistair with lips slightly parted. He nodded up the stairs for Anders to go first and then followed, casting one glance back to make sure he wasn’t going to get a wine bottle broken over his head or anything. 

“What was that?” Anders turned as Alistair entered the room behind him. His arms were folded, but he wore an uncertain smile, as if the smile itself were uncertain, alighting and flitting away, like it couldn’t decide whether to be sad or amused or wry. 

Alistair shrugged as he pulled off his sword and shield. “I wasn’t sure if you might go all blue and chokey if he touched you.” His ears were burning and he wasn’t sure why he would be blushing, except that the man downstairs reaching for Anders had made his stomach flip and clench. If it was easiest to explain his sudden defense as fear of an outburst of Justice he would, because hadn’t they just been talking about how hard it was for Anders to control him?

Anders’ smile settled on narrow-eyed, one corner of his mouth quirked more deeply. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man in a tavern called me pretty. Maker, I hope it wasn’t the last.” 

“Well, if you want, you could probably go make nice with him downstairs.” 

“No, I don’t think he’s really my type. Too much ale on his shirt and mutton in his beard. Too much beard in general. And short. And I don’t really fancy gingers.” His crooked smile deepened into a grimace. “Eugh, I just described Oghren.” He shook his head and the cat-smile, sharp but not mean, returned to his features. “Besides, if he was calling me pretty when you were in the room he was plainly too nearsighted to appreciate my charms.” 

None of that did anything for Alistair’s blush, or the crashing wave of frustration as he sat a little too hard on one of the beds and heard some joint in the frame squeal in protest. He tugged his gauntlets off with short, irritated motions and then sank his head into his hands, ignoring the way Anders watched him with a slowly chilling expression. 

Alistair had never thought of himself as having much of a temper. Be amiable, be invisible, that had been him. But that had just been his way of dealing with not having an choice in his life. Templars, Wardens, Elissa’s banishment. He’d thought he had finally moved to a place where he could choose. Choose to want Caralyn, choose to be part of her life, choose to make friends with the shabby apostate who was glaring at the top of his head, and the wise-cracking beardless dwarf, and maybe even the pantsless pirate and the bubbly little elf mage that used her own blood to make creepy magical flora grow. That last one seemed like a bit of a stretch on first glance, but she didn’t seem evil.

So now he sat frustrated, blunt nails digging into his scalp, because he had felt affection and protectiveness for Anders, a great swell of it first when speaking about his life in the Tower and then when some random smelly stranger had tried to touch him, and the unfairness of what he described made Alistair angry. 

Anders had been a Warden, outside the purview of the Chantry entirely, and he still had a Templar there, staring, waiting for him to fail, making sure he stayed in his place, the place the Chantry said was right. That Templar could have so easily been Alistair, and when he thought of looking at Caralyn or Anders as if they were subhuman he felt ill. And yes, demons were terrifying, and blood mages made him want to run screaming, and even the way Justice seemed to be trying to pop Anders like a sheep’s bladder that had been filled with water and dropped from the tower of a monastery at the the Knight-Lieutenants head was horrible. 

Alistair rubbed his face and then put his hands back in his hair, staring resolutely at the floor between his feet. He was not a faithless man, he believed in the Maker, and knew much more of the Chant than anyone would probably give him credit for, but he also knew that he wasn’t fine with people being forced to live in cages, in silence, screaming at their own solitude just to hear something. 

And then, there was Caralyn. Where was she? Was she screaming? Were they hurting her? If the Wardens knew he and Anders were here why didn’t they come to collect him? Or the both of them? What if they tried to take them to Ansburg and neither of them ever saw Caralyn again.

“Alistair?” There was the lightest brush of Anders’ fingers on the back of one of his wrists. “Hey, handsome, you need to calm down. You’re starting to pant.” 

The touch brought him back to his body and he realized his head felt swollen, the scalp prickling and hot, and he was breathing in hard, short bursts. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed out a longer, deeper breath then drew it back in slowly. These were things he knew how to control, it was part of the Templar training, calm, clarity. He huffed out a soft laugh at the irony of using it now. He nodded a little and repeated the long slow exhale followed by an inhale. Controlled, steady. 

“Good. Now, what was that all about? I’ve been accused of a certain amount of vanity before, but even I don’t think that was because a handsy drunk with bad teeth made a pass at me.” Anders settled across from him on his own bed. “Hmm?” 

“Nothing important.” He chanced a glance up and saw Anders quirking an eyebrow at him. “I’m worried for Caralyn and I’m tired of waiting for things to happen.” 

“You don’t have to be that stoic, you know.” There was a little flicker of worry, of hurt in his eyes that his smile smoothed over. 

The hurt tugged it out of him, because as desperate and drowning in guilt as Alistair was, Anders had been there to prop him up. Aside from that incident with the choking. “Just listening to you, talk about the Circle, and the Wardens, and I guess I had just never really thought about freedom like that before.” He didn’t say that he felt like his own freedom was slowly sifting out of his hands like sand. 

“You would have made the worst Templar. You’re supposed to lecture me about the dangers of magic, aren’t you? How it’s safer for everyone if mages submit to the Circle? Ooh, what about the lust for power that mages naturally possess?” Anders smile had more life in it now. 

“But I also feel guilty talking about this, joking, smiling. Doing anything while Caralyn is still…” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Gone.” 

“I haven’t noticed an abundance of smiles from you.” 

“I used to be better at it. That thing you’re doing. Witty one liners and pretending you’re not worried.” Alistair stood and started unfastening his armor. 

“You still do it. I think it’s just a measure of how worried you are that you’re not doing it very well.” Anders picked up his pack and started digging through it sort of aimlessly, but his eyes kept flicking up to Alistair, which made his cheeks heat slowly. He turned sideways to avoid catching his gaze. “Besides you know I’m worried.”

As he placed his splitmail in a careful pile at the foot of his bed, Alistair nodded. He tried not to feel the blush creep into his ears as he pulled off his padded gambeson and stood barechested while he found a simple linen shirt to pull on instead. He could feel Anders’ eyes on him and it made him fumble a bit in his pack. That drew a chuckle. 

“You’re like an adolescent that hasn’t ever had sex with a stranger in an alley before. I think you know you don’t have anything to be embarrassed of under your shirt.” 

“Yes, well, I… I wouldn’t have…” Alistair cleared his throat and then blurted, “Maker, can you imagine if I had tried to talk to Caralyn first? What a disaster that would have been. She would have set me on fire and ran.” He got the shirt on and dropped back onto his bed. 

The smile Anders wore then was complicated. Alistair didn’t think he’d ever even come close to smiling that kind of smile in his life. “Maybe a disaster, but she doesn’t use fire. She likes lightning better. If she’d ever let me explain to her how to use it in bed… well not such a disaster.” He looked like he was considering all the ways that could have ended and it did nothing for the embarrassment Alistair was feeling. 

“I’m going to be over here silently hating you for a little while now.” There was a tremor and an edge in his voice that spoke of a particularly unmanly panic. Maybe he could get Merrill to switch rooms. Would bunking with Isabela make him feel less confused? More irritated. Embarrased. But going from a conversation about freedom and feelings, an attack of nerves and panic, and now all of a sudden Anders was smiling _that_ smile and it was confusing. 

Anders nodded in a smug sort of satisfaction as he stood. “I’m going to check and see if Varric is back. Try not to mope too hard. I’ll bring back something to eat?” 

Alistair nodded and watched him leave before pressing his hands to his face. No he wouldn’t be moping, and instead focus on not dying of embarrassment. What kind of application could lightning possibly have in bed? He was drawing a blank until he thought of the way she’d flickered and sparked that night outside the Bone Pit when she showed him her lightning playing across her skin and in her hair, and his chest hurt with the sudden surge of longing. 

He needed her to be safe. He needed her to understand that whatever happened, it wasn’t her fault. He just needed her. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, wishing the embarrassment would come back. It would be so much easier to hold inside him than this ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I alluded to at the end of the last chapter, the relationship trajectory of the fic is shifting. I know that some readers responded negatively to the idea of different iterations of F/M M/M and F/M/M aside from the pairing I've already tagged for. Those tags are likely to be added over the next few chapters. I will be wandering down a path paved with angst, that does not lead to a spontaneously ideal poly-triad. I would love for you to join me in this ongoing journey of pain, fuck-words, and occasional sexing. 
> 
> Thanks really a lot forever. Readers are love.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders thinks some thoughts, feels some feels, and has a chat with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first Anders POV chapter for this story. My headcanon for Anders is that the more support he has the more slowly he becomes unhinged, and since Caralyn has been unequivocally on his side for a long time, he's a little more pre-Justice Anders and little less tortured, while still carrying around a big ball of Fade spirit in his poor noggin. So... I hope that all worked out.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this one. It took me a while to find my way in. The next chapter is mostly written, and should be up within the next couple of days once I've pummeled it into shape.

The taproom emptied out slowly over the course of the evening and Anders watched it absently, his fingers laced around the single mug of ale he nursed and nursed and nursed. Isabela and Varric had been at a table comparing notes and rumors when he’d left Alistair, and eventually the pirate had headed out again while Varric told stories and tugged at threads of conversation. Anders mostly just frowned at the slow dissipation of the head on his ale and grimaced whenever he took another flat, warm sip of it. 

He had an incredible headache and an insistent knot in his stomach and the two sensations were only aggravated by the angry, swirly buzzing in the base of his skull. Justice was impatient and cross and never quite seemed to understand that time was a sequential succession of moments that one had to live through in the right order. 

The buzzing spiked and he winced slightly. Maker, it was bad enough to have become so damn philosophical but when the hosted spirit didn’t even appreciate those attempts at philosophising for said spirit’s benefit-- the buzzing spiked again and his jaw clenched for a moment. 

“You alright there, Blondie?”

The question was absurd for the asking, because he and Varric both knew the answer. He wasn’t alright, not even on good days would he ever describe himself as all right. He was the mask of a man, hiding a monster beneath, and his anchor, the one tether that kept him in the semblance of a human, had been taken. 

He glanced up and saw Varric watching him with one brow lifted and Anders lifted a single shoulder in answer. “Couldn’t be better, Varric. Unless of course I was sitting at Hawke’s kitchen table eating something Orana baked and listening to her curse about that naughty serial I know you and Isabela have been whispering about. But this is nice too.” 

“I’m pretty sure the pirate and I don’t whisper about naughty anything.” Varric’s eyes were as worried as Anders’ knew his own were, even as his mouth quirked around his droll tone. 

“Forgive me. Snickering about it. What was your working title? The Wardens’ Appetites? And something about a sandwich? Because that is bloody terrible.” Anders smirked and sipped his ale, taking too large of a drink and gagging a little. Terrible, flat, warm, and he was fairly certain the tankard had never been washed. Time was this was just the sort of “lively” experience he craved running from the Tower and straight into whatever bustling pocket of warm bodies he could find. Now it just seemed sour and stale. 

“Rivaini is a little… preoccupied with the sandwich thing. I’m more interested in the sweeping. Does New Guy get to do all the sweeping, or is there a little for you too?” 

“I don’t think I could lift Alistair if I tried. Besides, I’m a little bit old to be stealing my best friend’s lover, don’t you think? I mean, I may have gone in for a spiteful swipe back in my robe-wearing days, but it seems like rather too much work now.” Anders has to fight to keep his tone light, to keep from rubbing his eyes and knuckling his temples. The flirting with Alistair had maybe gone too far. Far enough that he was starting to feel something for the big slab of muscle that was just the icing on the confusing cake that was his friendship with Cara. 

Ah, friendship. The word caused a hollow ache in his chest somewhere between the pain in his head and the knot in his stomach. Wasn’t he was just a big snarly ball of pleasantness tonight? 

Varric’s fingers snapped close to his face and he flinched back, eyes widening. “That’s what I thought. You deny it, but then you get all dewy eyed thinking about sweeping. What I’m trying to figure out is why you’ve gone all to pieces about Hawke now, when you were fine disapproving from afar when it was the elf.” 

“I’m not ‘all to pieces’.” What had Varric been saying before he snapped his fingers? It was gone, completely. Maybe he was in more pieces than he’d realized.

“Oh, Blondie, you’re adorable when you lie to yourself.” 

The tight-lipped grimace that Anders pulled onto his face was a mask that didn’t do a very good job of covering his disquiet. He let it soften into a smirk and waved an airy hand. This was every bit as much a mask, but it was the one that made it easiest to banter with Varric. “Besides who says it’s Hawke I’m in pieces over?” 

“So it _is_ the meathead?” Varric leaned forward, interest sparking in his eyes. 

Well, it was, and it wasn’t. It was so much more complicated than that. Starting as a stupid, petty impulse and then becoming something else. First there was the fear that Justice would burn out everything he recognized as himself without Hawke there to pull his hair and call him an idiot and _see_ him. And somehow he realized around the time Justice tried to choke Alistair to death that the almost-templar had enough mass to be an anchor. There was a slight shift, a squirmy discomfort that he couldn’t blame on anything other than a shared disgust at his own selfishness. 

This time Anders had to divert the hand that rose to rub his forehead by running it up to smooth back his hair lightly, a tip to his chin that was classic Anders, old running-away-from-the-world Anders. There were days when Justice made it bloody hard to know who he was, but he was certain that this was the person he had left the furthest behind. “The meathead? I hope you haven’t settled on that instead of New Guy. Even if New Guy is pretty awful.” 

Varric’s eyes narrowed slightly and then he chuckled. “Well, I’ve been thinking about working Chuckles in, or maybe Beefy…” He grinned at the face Anders pulled. “Fine, I’ll keep thinking about it.” 

“I’m honored you’re giving me input, Varric, really.” If they all managed to get home to Kirkwall Anders supposed Alistair would need a proper Varric-approved nickname. But Beefy? It seemed a little puerile for the man it described who Anders had slowly come to find charming and sweet natured, surprisingly funny, and dammit he didn’t want to be thinking any of these things. 

There was no way to lie to himself really, no matter what Varric said. He could lie about lying to himself, but Justice held him to account for almost everything that rambled through his mind, and the spirit was ever more confused by his (their Anders sometimes thought) feelings for Cara which had wound tighter and more painful ever since her mother died. And instead of jealousy driving him miserably back into Darktown when Alistair had just appeared in her kitchen one morning, Anders found himself simply liking the man. And then, because he couldn’t lie to himself, _liking_ him. 

It was all wound up in things Alistair probably didn’t even realize had a tingly effect on other people, like the warmth with which he had listened to Anders talk about the Wardens. The clear, self-effacing need to do whatever it took to make sure Cara was safe. The way he blushed when Anders flirted but never recoiled as if it were distasteful. The half-cocked defense of Anders’ honor when they’d crossed the taproom. The strange panicky moment upstairs because he was thinking about Anders and freedom? 

And for Anders even being able to notice those things, much like he noticed the way Hawke set her jaw a certain way when she was pretending to be angry but was in fact amused, it made the mask, the shape of the man, that he wore feel almost real. As if it went deeper than a garment that he’d snatched from a rag bag and thrown on, ill-fitting and none too clean. 

Andraste’s knickerweasels, Varric was right. He was gone to pieces. Over Cara and the ridiculously handsome, absurdly nice, and just plain sculpted, almost-Templar, exiled Warden, and bastard prince she’d brought home. 

It was Varric’s voice that brought him back, not because he was being spoken to, no apparently the dwarf had given him up for lost on that. It was the larger tone of Varric’s storytelling voice, the rasping pleasantly working the rising and falling cadence that made people lean closer to catch every word. The story he was currently telling was some ridiculous rescue or other, but Anders stopped paying attention to it almost immediately. 

The entire time he’d been in the taproom he had been idly aware of Alistair upstairs, the squirmy spot in his brain that indicated the presence of another Warden nearby. But now it changed, a second instance of the taint close enough to sense, growing closer, but outside the tavern. He straightened, “listening” intently before he rose, muttering to Varric that he needed some air. 

Outside the air was somewhat fresher, but only just, the humid summer night still stinking like tar and fish and rotting seaweed. After a moment considering Anders took a seat on a crate in the alley next to the inn, staff across his knees, and waited. It didn’t take long. 

The shadow that stepped into the alley was tall, lean, with the tell-tale lines of a longbow on his back. The profile, briefly illuminated by the lamps hanging above the tavern door, caused a brief spasm of… grief. Yes, it was grief. It clenched around Anders’ heart and then bled away just as suddenly. Whatever good had been part of his life at Vigil’s Keep was gone, long gone, and even seeing Nathaniel Howe again didn’t make it any more worthy of regretting. 

“Anders.” Howe’s voice always had a dry, husky quality to it, and hearing it again caused him to sigh a little, while the buzzing pressure in his head lessened, and the sudden wistful sensation strengthened. Could Justice be wistful? Was it only his own feelings echoing through the spirit that he’d joined with, the illusion of their dichotomy making it seem as if there was more than once source? He shook those thoughts away. 

“Well, I’m surprised to see you here, Nate. How’ve you been, old boy?” Anders planted the butt of the staff on the ground and pulled himself to his feet. 

Nathaniel’s sigh was achingly familiar, irritation at the familiar diminutive address causing his lips to curl. “Better than most, I suppose. I haven’t abandoned my post.” 

Anders’ sigh by comparison was tired, thorny, not the breezy, slick, posturing sigh of… well he would call it his youth, but four years wasn’t so much time to turn youth into age. The sigh wasn’t one Nathaniel would recognize. “The woman burned down a city full of people. One of those people was your sister. Sorry if I don’t see the honor in standing at attention for the person who would do that.” 

This was an old argument, one that Anders should have left buried, but he had never been able to stomach the callousness that Elissa Cousland had shown toward the people of her Arling, nor Nathaniel’s support of the plan. That Delilah Howe had escaped the city when it burned was immaterial in his opinion. 

“And that’s the difference between someone who understands duty and someone who is always running away from it.” 

That made Justice prickle and stir, because he was no longer someone who ran from duty. He was bailing a beach full of sand into the ocean, one handful at a time, and Maker, didn't it seem fruitless. It sifted through his fingers and was pushed back up by the waves, but he’d still be doing it when the tide washed in and drowned him. 

“How are you getting on with Elissa these days, Nate? I don’t suppose you’re indispensable to her? A hostage for a hostage, that sort of thing?” Of course Nathaniel wouldn’t be here if Elissa worried about that sort of thing. 

“I wouldn’t call myself indispensable, no.” The wry tone wasn’t amused and what Anders could see of Nathaniel’s expression was grim. “How are you involved in this business with Alistair Theirin, Anders? And the girl that Topher brought in?” 

“Have you seen her?” 

“Hm. Yes. She wasn’t… conscious though.” There was something else, a wrinkle of distaste or displeasure that caused Anders’ hands to clench around his staff. 

“What does that mean? Is she hurt? Did somebody hurt her?” When Justice began to push forward it was always as if the buzzing that lived in his skull, a dense knot, slowly unfurled and every nerve and muscle in his body took up the same buzzing while his flesh grew numb with icy needles prickling everywhere, if the needles were made of magic and glowed white with the heat of the raw Fade pressing against and out and through. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, watching Nathaniel take a sudden step back. 

“Maker’s breath, Anders, what have you… what have you become?” 

“Something that no longer answers to the Wardens. Now tell me what has happened to Caralyn Hawke.” His voice was too large for his throat. Something that hurt as it boiled out of him, but he was still himself, wasn't he? Just more? Redoubled. An echo that reverberated through the hollow places inside him where only a man used to be. It was a contradiction to be at once overfull and also holding what felt like such vast and limitless space.

The silence stretched for a long moment while Nathaniel watched him with narrowed eyes and his jaw working. Was it disgust? That would be ironic, since it had been Nate who had suggested to Justice a living host, a willing host, could be a solution to the spirit’s problem. Of course it had presented a whole bloody bucket of additional problems. 

“Please, Nate.” The echoing rage receded just enough that Anders heard the slight fracturing of his own mortal voice, a pleading. He needed Nathaniel to tell him something, anything that would let him hold on against Justice, because at the moment the spirit had no thought, no care, for their old friend beyond the injustice that had been inflicted on Hawke and the need for vengeance. 

“There isn’t much I can tell you, Anders. She’s alive, drugged unconscious. Excessively so.” His brow furrowed again, lips tightening as he tugged parchment rectangle from where it was tucked under his armguard. “This is for the bastard. It explains what happens next. I’d take the Commander very, very seriously on this.” He held the letter out. 

As Anders reached for the letter he felt Justice withdraw, his vision clearing, or dimming, no longer seeing with the eyes of a spirit as well as his own. His hands trembled, they always did after the surge of strength from the Fade receded, and with the loss, his fear, always the damn fear, swelled. Fear, this time, for Cara. “When was the last time she woke? Is she keeping food or fluids down? What has she been dosed with?” 

Nathaniel released the parchment as Anders took it and quickly stepped back, a hand reaching to brush the knife at his belt and then his bow. He was afraid of Anders. Of course he was. Well, there was a first time for everything. “We only arrived this morning. I don’t know the answer to those questions.” He shifted, glancing over his shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone is listening. “But… from what I could see she is poorly off. Elissa was actually rather relieved when she heard you had accompanied Alistair to town since it is obvious to both of us she needs a healer.” 

Fingers crumpling the parchment in a suddenly tightened fist, Anders stepped forward, one sharp stride and then a second. “If she dies, Nate… if she dies you don’t understand what will happen. You can’t even--” He had to swallow against the sizzle and buzz of Justice once more. The ache in his chest, the thought that Caralyn Hawke might die, it was a nest, a node of chewing beetles, gnawing and scrabbling and this was the fear and the fury that made him worry that what had been Justice was in danger of only ever being Vengeance. 

“Well, convince the bastard Theirin to do what needs to be done then, and make sure she lives. It is out of my hands.” Nathaniel took another set of steps away from Anders, hand lifting near to pulling his bow from his back, and suddenly the realization that he had not yet brought any weapons to bear sucked the air from Anders’ lungs. 

After a moment he nodded once, then twice, and again, hands spreading. “Go on then, Howe. I assume there are instructions for a mysterious rendezvous in here?” He lifted the half-crushed letter. “It was… well, no, I won’t say it was good to see you, not like this. But it could have been worse. You could have shot me with an arrow or brought Templars with you.” 

“Maker, you’re an ass, Anders.” Nathaniel shook his head and turned toward the street. By the time Anders came to the mouth of the alley he was gone, a shade lost among shadows in the darkness pooling between windows and lamps. 

He staggered back several steps, and let his legs go, thumping down onto the crate that had served as a seat before Nate arrived, Anders could find no way to argue with that parting statement. He was an ass. It seemed easier to remind Nathaniel of that fact than dealing with any other possible reactions to seeing him. It was a comfortable roll to play and he did it well.

He stared blankly at the crumpled letter in his hand, trying to find his equilibrium again. There had been too many surges from Justice, too many abrupt withdrawals, leaving him shaking, too aware of his skin, the texture of his own tongue, how the fabric of his shirt shifted against the hair on his arms. It was all familiar, made foreign and discomfiting by the return of all the sensation to his awareness, no longer shoved aside by the searing presence of the spirit inside him. 

But they were one, and this sensation of schism, of slight revulsion at the realities of his own body, was an illusion, and he pressed it aside, reaching for the thoughts and memories that tied him to the fact his life was bounded inside the confines of meat. Anders shook his head again, then pinched his nose, and thought about the texture of crushed elfroot, the way Hawke’s hair smelled, the way his mouth had watered ever so slightly when he’d let himself enjoy looking at Alistair with his shirt off. 

It was appalling, really, how much those last two thoughts helped, and whatever else Justice or Vengeance was, a part of him, or separate and sentient inside his head, that sense of being appalled issued from there. But it was also easier to ignore the spirit as he stood again, a slight, sad smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Heartache and yearning. It was a brutal sort of justice that those were the emotions that made him feel most human. 

Anders suspected that there were other modes, other methods, that would make him feel the man instead of the monster, but they weren’t his so the longing, it would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people worrying about Caralyn, I haven't had much to write from her POV because of how deeply drugged she's being kept. The next chapter will have a little update on her status, and we'll get back to her the chapter after that. Promise. :)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a letter is read and choices are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been coming for a long time. Dialing that angst up to 11.

Alistair didn’t stay awake for long after Anders left. The weight of the evening settled over him like a heavy wool blanket, itchy and suffocating, and before long he just gave up and drifted off. If there were dreams they were probably itchy as well, because when the door opened he struggled to sit up, sweating, shirt damp and clinging to him, but awake instantly. Like a good soldier, or Warden, or mercenary or whatever. 

One of these days he would figure out what he was. 

Anders entered, looking more upset than apologetic at finding Alistair peering at him, flushed and disheveled. He was lacking any of the slight smirk and glinting eyes that he’d left with. Instead he looked pale, the skin around his eyes tight and sallow, the set of his jaw rigid and the tendons in his neck visible. He wasn’t looking at Alistair either. 

“Anders?” He swung his feet off the narrow bed, planting them on the floor as he scrubbed his hands through his sweaty, sticky hair. “Is everything…” He trailed off when Anders’ eyes shifted and fixed on his and no, he was pretty sure everything was not all right, so he let the question wander off. The amber eyes were flat in a way he didn’t like, and he frowned as he met them, one eyebrow lifting as a crumpled and creased letter was shoved into his hands. 

The wax seal was blue, embossed with a gryphon, but in addition to the gryphon were the twin laurels of House Cousland, and the blue was more Cousland than Warden, but with silver flecks. That was… disturbing. “Where did you get this?” 

Anders dropped onto the other bed with a thump and hunched over, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. He looked like a scarecrow that had fallen off its post, tumbled over and bent oddly. “Nathaniel Howe paid a little visit. He said it explained what was going to happen next… and that Hawke is sick.” 

That was not what he wanted to hear, not at all, and his skin felt clammy and cold as he held the letter, pressed tightly between his palms, ignoring the seal and the address. “Are you… you seem, well, a little rattled, I suppose and I don’t see any clear signs you were recently stabbed or set anyone on fire, so I guess you didn’t fight with Howe?” 

“What?” Anders’ face came back up, looking at Alistair, eyebrows knotted, and that wasn’t the first time that face had ever been made in his direction. “No, I didn’t fight with Nate. He brought the letter. I was an ass, he was a stiff, pompous bastard, and then he wandered off. Justice tried very hard to burn up what little self control I manage to cling to, but even he didn’t actually try to hurt Nate.” 

“Oh. Good. I… yes.” 

“Are you going to read the bloody letter?” 

Alistair flinched slightly at the way those words caught in Anders’ throat. Of course, if Caralyn was sick, he’d be worried, and that… well that made it seem dire, and he found himself not wanting to read the letter, not wanting whatever news, or threats, or demands it held. If he didn’t read it they wouldn’t be real. “Ye-es. I’m. Yes.” He forced in a sharp breath and held it as he cracked the seal, as if he were steeling himself against the pain of, say, someone cutting an arrow out of his chest. 

The handwriting pushed the held breath out of his lungs in a rush, the familiarity a sharp jab at the parts of his heart he’d thought long scabbed over and healed. It hurt to see his name in that familiar, elegant script, as artfully controlled as the first woman he’d ever fancied himself in love with. It tasted sour. 

_Alistair,_

_You have no idea how hard it is to write this. It was never my intention for any of this to happen in quite this way. It might please you to hear that whatever favor Bann Teagan hoped to garner by agreeing to speak with you is unlikely to fall upon him; between his handling of you and my agent’s unauthorized procurement of a hostage under his supervision, everything he was tasked with has gone rather disastrously wrong._

_Of course, if you’d simply read the letters Anora and I sent you, it is unlikely it would have gone half so far._

Alistair’s hands were shaking so badly by that sentence he had to stop reading and bow his head for a moment.

“What does it say?” Anders’ voice was a thin whisper. 

“That something bad has happened and oh look it’s my fault.” Alistair turned his gaze back to the parchment. 

_Regardless of how this could, or should have happened, we are now in the place we find ourselves, and we will do as needs must when the demons drive._

_First, I will assure you that your acquaintance who has found herself in my custody, is alive. It is with regret that I say she was not handled with quite as much care as she warranted, and is rather gravely ill. According to my agent there was something likely in her blood, or she had been weakened by some foreign toxin, before he took steps to sedate and pacify her. As of this writing she has been unconscious for several days. She lives, but is in need of a healer. As it is my understanding you have traveled to Ostwick in the company of an old comrade of mine who abley fits that description it makes some of our options more clear._

_I’m sure that you have a hundred outlandish scenarios in which you rescue your friend rattling around in that head of yours and I’m sure that you look very fetching in all of them, dearheart, but there is only one choice that I am leaving up to your decision._

_Will you surrender yourself to the Wardens willingly? Or will I use my Rite as Commander of the Grey of Ferelden and Conscript this lovely girl who is so very ill? Of course I would be forced to take her to the Circle to be healed first, where she would likely be Harrowed, and a phylactery made before I took her for the Joining._

_This isn’t a punishment, Alistair. I know that you believe I took everything from you, that your life was crushed beneath the arrogance of my boot. You would probably describe me as mean, or wicked, or bossy. A bossy lady who was all wicked and ruthless and full of angry, stompy ways. But, needs must._

_Now the needs of Ferelden and the Grey Wardens have aligned to a strange degree that I cannot commit entirely to this letter, but if you fear that your life is endangered by returning to the fold, I will assure you otherwise. Your name has been lifted too many times by dissenting voices within the Landsmeet and one way to solve that would be, yes, to execute you. But that would not relieve the pressure that Val Royeaux lately places on the sovereignty of Ferelden, and so… you need to come home._

_If you choose not to heed my summons, I will have your friend healed, harrowed, phylacteried, and then conscripted. No one can deny my right to deal with an apostate thus, and even the Viscount of Kirkwall would have nothing to say against me. On the other hand, should you attempt to retrieve her by force, you would be committing a crime recognized by all nations, of attacking the sanctity of the Rite of Conscription, and it would change nothing in her fate, while yours would be far more likely to end in that previously mentioned unpreferable execution._

_Now, in order to make this transfer of custody go smoothly, I have arranged for her passage along with the others who accompanied you to this city back to Kirkwall on the morning tide. They will board the ship, you will join me on my way to Ansburg, and once both of those things have happened she will be delivered to the ship as well, where my old friend will be able to attend to her ill health and see her safely home._

_Deviations from this plan will have the result, in addition to those sketched above, of the imprisonment of those other companions, and likely the unfortunate execution of my old friend, as he is wanted for the murder of several members of the Orders both Grey and Templar._

_I want you to live, Alistair. Despite what he might think, I want my old friend (the first Warden I ever conscripted) to live. I want this poor girl, who is only guilty of feeling loyalty to you when you couldn’t see past your childish bitterness to do your duty for the second time, to live. They can go free if you can finally choose to honor your oaths, fulfill your obligations, and shoulder your burdens instead of wallowing in that bitterness, dearheart._

_With a love more enduring than possessed of sense,_  
 _Elissa_

Alistair was cold. He had gone cold and still and frozen. He couldn’t feel his hands as Anders leaned forward and pulled the letter from his fingers. The only other thing in the letter had been which gate he was to meet Elissa at along with a time, and the name of the ship that Caralyn would be delivered to if the other demands were met. 

The silence stretched as Anders read and Alistair thought he could tell exactly when Elissa threatened to have Caralyn healed and Harrowed by the Circle, because Anders was no longer Anders, but surged to his feet, blue cracks riddling his skin. “This will not be.” It was very nearly a roar. 

“I’ll go to her as she asked, Justice.” There was no real question there. Selfishness. Bitterness. He wasn’t going to risk her life, no. He’d already done more than enough of that. 

“Anders does not wish you to do so.” 

The spirit’s declaration on Anders’ behalf made Alistair’s temples throb a little. It was surprising, sort of, or just confusing as most of the things that involved the mage were. “Well, it isn’t my first choice either, but I’m not sure if there are any other ones. Choices, I mean.” 

“You are a Warden. It is just that you do your duty so that Caralyn Hawke is not leashed by the Templars.” 

Alistair rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know about just, but… I will do it for her.” He felt fifty pounds heavier than he had an hour ago and twenty years older. “Can you… well, I should explain it to Anders?” 

“He will resist your attempts at explanation, but I shall not let him interfere.” 

That was somehow not reassuring at all, and only twisted Alistair’s gut, all the worry and warmth he’d felt earlier for the apostate, bubbling up again. He was more fragile than he seemed underneath his flippant sarcasm and towering, righteous rage. Still, he nodded as Justice receded and when Anders’ eyes dimmed back to their normal warm amber he had to jump to his feet and catch him by his arms so he didn’t tumble to the floor. 

“Maker’s balls, Justice.” Anders’ head suddenly snapped up. “You can’t. Alistair, you _can’t_. Cara will kill me. There has to be something else.” 

“Finish the letter first.” 

He startled, looking down at the parchment and then fell to reading it again while Alistair waited. When he was done he looked up, face white and rigid, eyes glassy. His mouth opened and then closed again, teeth grinding around his silence. 

Alistair shrugged slowly, feeling the weight, the defeat settling in. “If you can think of something that won’t bring the Wardens down on all of you, I wouldn’t object to hearing it. Now. Anytime really, would be good.” 

Anders took a step back and returned to his seat on the bed. His long fingers ran into his hair, the way he gripped it pulling it from the tie. “Void take it. Void take her! Everything I can think of would take days to plan. Cara doesn’t have any time. If she’s been overdosed with magebane and her system was weak because of the spider bite and if he gave her any poppy at all...” He was shaking, Alistair could see it. “You know what this means, don’t you?” 

“You mean other than the fact she’s right, I am selfish and bitter, and none of this would have happened if I’d done what Teagan asked in the first place?” 

“They’re going to make you marry Anora.” 

“I think I’ll more likely angle for the execution.” 

“That isn’t funny.” 

“Mmm, well it seems more cheerful than being forced to sit next to her and nod during court functions and pretend to be king.” Alistair tried for a lopsided smile, and thought he probably rather looked like an animal caught in a trap, baring its teeth. 

“Stop it. You have to… this is a disaster.” Anders looked desolate as he tipped his face up, and Alistair could see the fear there. 

“You’re scared that she won’t keep her word?” 

“No, I think she will.” His fingers came free of his hair which fell into his eyes. “But it isn’t right.” He flinched and shook his head, denying something that Alistair couldn’t hear. “No, it isn’t just. It’s bloody bullying.” His eyes refocused and Alistair met them steadily, trying to offer him a certainty he did not feel. 

“I’m going to do what she says for Caralyn. Unless you think she’d prefer to be a Warden with a phylactery instead?” There was no chance of that, both of them knew it, but he could pretend there was a choice, or that the choice was a joke that they were invited to laugh at, and really it was easy to make wasn’t it? Elissa had gotten better at this sort of thing, it seemed. 

The hollow note in Anders voice quelled the forced lightness. “It is much more likely she would be made Tranquil. She is not… docile enough for a Circle mage. I don’t… she can’t. She would be destroyed.” His eyes flashed with the ice of the Fade again but Justice did not press forward. “I can’t live with that.” 

“Oh, well, if you can’t live with it, then that’s one thing. I was going to suggest it was the best plan.” He wiped his hand over his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against his palm as rough as the laugh he almost managed in the face of Anders’ glare. 

“If Elissa was just going to execute you would you still go?” 

There was no wry or droll or flip response that Alistair could muster. He just let his shoulders sag a little and nodded. “Yes.” 

Anders stood again suddenly and for a moment Alistair was afraid he’d lost his mind to Justice again, or he was so overcome with rage he was going to lash out, and at that moment Alistair would maybe have accepted a good hard punch because all of this hinged on his own stubborn pride and bitterness. What he did not expect was one of Anders’ hands to grip the back of his neck and the other to rest alongside his jaw. He certainly didn’t expect to be tugged down so that the slightly shorter man’s mouth could cover his. 

Alistair froze, lips slightly parted in an aborted gasp of shock. Anders’ lips were warm and dry, the stubble around his mouth rasping against his own, while his head was fixed in a grip much firmer than he expected. Alistair’s hands were spread to the side, fingers splayed, as he found himself very thoroughly kissed. A tongue slipped against his lower lip, teasing and tasting before dipping into his mouth and the moment he felt like he was about to kiss back he closed his hands on the feathered shoulders and gently, regretfully, pushed him away. 

Regretfully? Yes, he, well, he didn’t want to be leaving, not in this way and he... Maker, the apostate was mad and he smelled nice, and was a good kisser, but… confusing. Parts of Alistair’s body were responding in ways he did not expect. Of course there was the blush, sudden, hot rush of blood to his cheeks and ears. His mouth had also gone rather dry, his tongue feeling too thick for it. But there was a tightening in his groin that he did not associate with kissing men, not that he’d ever kissed men before, and well, those kinds of thoughts weren’t something to get riled about. They just sort of happened, especially growing up in a monastery with nothing but other athletic young men around. Didn’t they?

Anders had tears in his eyes as he looked at Alistair, his chin tilted ever so slightly up towards him, maybe six inches separating their faces. “I just didn’t want you to leave before I had a chance to do that once.” 

“Why would you? What? I… that…” 

The pad of Anders’ thumb ran over his lips and then he leaned again, slowly, not ambushing him this time, just letting his mouth come to gently rest on Alistair’s a second time. This kiss was practically chaste by comparison, but it was so, so tender that Alistair sighed into it and pulled him just a little closer, his hands gripping the feathered pauldrons. They broke from it at the same time, Alistair’s face still flaming red, and Anders looking up at him from the bottom of a well of sadness. 

“What do you want me to tell her?” 

Alistair blinked at him. “You want to tell her about us?” 

“Oh, don’t you even start with that. Us.” Anders snorted a bit wetly and shook his head. “You’re a wretch.” His hand was still warm against Alistair’s face, his fingers still firmly gripping the back of his neck. 

“I… yes?” There was very little room for actual thoughts at the moment, but when those warm eyes narrowed at him, the pieces of his shattered composure started to coalesce. 

“What do you want me to tell her about you? That you went to Elissa willingly? That Elissa was going to turn her over to the Tower? Do you want me to tell her you love her? Any romantic protestations that you’ll never forget her? What do you want her to know?” Anders had become a little shrill by the end and Alistair squeezed his shoulders gently. 

“Don’t lie to her, but tell her what you think will help her live her life.” He’d never told Caralyn he loved her. He didn’t think it was right to have Anders tell her now, not if he was never going to see her again. 

“She’s strong. She’ll survive the truth.” 

“Anders.” His chiding tone caused the other man’s brow to furrow. “Live. She deserves more than to survive. Surviving can happen in a cage. Living can’t. Don’t tell me you don’t know the difference?” 

“You are… Maker’s ass, Alistair.” He sounded half strangled. “We only have a few hours until dawn. You should go.” Fingers skimmed over the two-day growth of beard on Alistair’s cheek as Anders slowly drew his hand away, the calluses rasping against the stubble and it sent a shiver down his back, beneath his armor. This was wrong, wasn’t it, this moment of warm skin and looking at this man’s mouth, thinking about Caralyn, and why was it comforting? And confusing! Maker it was confusing, but he couldn’t wrestle with it now. It didn’t matter. He’d let Anders kiss him goodbye, and Maker knew no one else was going to have a chance to, so maybe it was fine. It could be fine, a kindness. 

Whether it was his kindness or Anders’ kindness, he’d probably never be able to figure.

He let his hands slip off the thin shoulders beneath them and he stepped away, pulling on boots and armor in a daze, out of order and haphazard at best. Once he pulled his gaunlets on he picked up the sword and shield and his pack. All of it in silence. 

He stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder at Anders. The blond hair was loose from the tie and his brows were drawn together, pained. It made Alistair’s throat clench and for a moment he almost blurted all those romantic protestations that Anders had prompted, insisted he tell Caralyn she was loved, that she wasn’t abandoned, not again, and that she shouldn’t forget him. But that, like many things, was selfish. He wanted to believe that he, himself, Alistair mattered to someone. Not the accident of his birth. 

Instead he let himself meet Anders’ eyes and smile the smallest smile he’d ever managed. “As unlikely as it seems, Anders, I’m glad I met you. Take care of yourself too.” And that was true. He was glad he had met the feather-wearing apostates, half-mad with a spirit in his head, who could be incomprehensibly cutting when it suited him, but also like the second kiss he’d given Alistair, too gentle for words. 

Anders gave a tiny nod and Alistair left. He walked away from his confusion about what had just happened. He walked away from his longing to see Caralyn one last time. He walked away from the belief that he had almost become who he actually was. He was walking back towards being a Warden in Elissa’s shadow, the bastard son of a dead king, burdened with a birthright and a purpose that he had never wanted. 

And damn it, it felt like walking out of the air, and into his grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay if you're going to throw shoes, I probably deserve it. But it isn't permanent. I promise that this isn't Alistair walking out of the story. :) (Or into his grave.)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke wakes up on a boat, confused and angry. Also a bit ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short for how long it took me to get it together. I'd spent so long out of Caralyn's head that it was a bit tricky to find my way back, and then it's a transition chapter, which isn't so much fun anyway.

The gentle rocking was familiar to Hawke and as she slithered out of the very bottom of her mind, nauseous and aching all over her wretched carcass, she knew she was on a ship. It smelled like a ship, oak and tar and fish. There was also the less pleasant smell of unwashed body. It sounded like a ship, creaking and the sharp snap of sail cloth. She strained her ears, listening for her mother’s soft weeping or Carver’s incessant grumbling. She must’ve fallen ill like the other passengers, other refugees, but as she opened her eyes she wasn’t in the hold of the transport from Gwaren. She was in a cabin, lit by a candle, and alone. 

The remnants of her dreams, whatever they had been, that called to mind her mother and Carver dissipated and Hawke was left heavy and weary under the weight of the memories of endless rounds of magebane, flickering consciousness, and illness. Endless illness. And now she was on a fucking boat?

No. Fucking void, no. If she was on a ship to Ferelden, she was never going to… Fuck. She swung her legs off the bunk and tried to stand but dizzy, teetering on the edge of vomitous, she stumbled to her knees and looked down at her hands. They were unbound and… she stretched tentatively toward her magic and there it was. Weak, the part of her that touched the Fade feeling bruised, abraded, but it was there. “What the Maker fucking fuck is going on?” Her throat hurt almost as much as the rest of her, and she was so thirsty. 

Standing seemed the first order of business and as she tried there were light footfalls in the hallway outside the door, or port, or hatch, or whatever the shit these things were called on a ship. She scooted away from it and leaned back against the bed, letting as much lightning as she could muster gather in her hands. It might be enough to fry the eyeballs of whoever opened that damn door, but when it opened Merrill poked her head in. 

“Oh! Hawke! You’re awake!” The bright chirp of Merrill’s voice seemed both surprised and a little panicked, as if this wasn’t a good thing, but there were also bright, smiling tears in her eyes. Hawke shook the spell away, head swimming and she had to close her eyes as her vision doubled. “Creators, you’re on the floor. Did you fall off the bed? Or is it a bunk? I have a hammock, which is quite nice. It swings. Varric fell out of one before he decided the floor was better. Something about dwarves and birds and boats. Isabela thought it was funny, but I didn’t quite follow since dwarves don’t have feathers. Here, let’s get you up. There that’s better, isn’t it?”

Hands grasped Hawke and helped her push back up onto the bunk. She was unsteady and shaking all over. Her eyes had fallen shut and remained that way. She was afraid that the flood of patter from Merrill would stop and she would be left alone in the dark again. Tied, drugged, endlessly waiting. She couldn’t remember anything about how she’d got here. 

“Hawke?” 

“What?” There was only the memory of the fire in her throat from the magebane, but that was hard enough to squeeze words out around. 

“I’m going to go get Anders now.” A hand stroked down her hair like the fall of a feather and Hawke nodded. 

“Yes.” Anders was good. He would make this make sense. “And Alistair. I want to see him too.” 

There was a tiny noise out of Merrill, a chirp or a tsk, or something that Hawke couldn’t identify. A choked laugh, a noise of pain? What the fuck was that? She opened her eyes to find Merrill slipping out the door, and then they closed again, heavy and heated and even though Merrill and Anders were here, apparently, on the ship something was wrong. She leaned over to rest her head and the rolling sway tugged her down again, into the dark.

When she woke it was to less pain and confusion. A single strong blade of light cut through the shadows of the cabin from the porthole and she grunted as she rolled toward the edge. 

“Hey, easy, love.” Anders was seated next to her bunk and he brushed the hair off her face with warm fingers. “Welcome back.” His palm pressed to her cheek and she blinked her eyes into focus, looking up at him, and she could tell so much easier than with Merrill’s chirping that something was wrong. 

“Why do neither you nor Merrill seem very fucking happy to see me?” She tried to bat his hand away when he dropped his gaze. 

“You’re safe and not actively dying by poison. What’s not to be happy about?” With a soft sigh he helped her shift into a sitting position, leaning against the wall and pushed a mug into her hands. Her suspicious glance at it made half his mouth lift a little. “Broth. It isn’t particularly good quality, but a ship’s galley only has so much to work with. Mostly salt beef and onions. But you need something in you. How are the cramps?” 

She shook her head, trying to sift through his words for useful information. Cramps? Well, that would explain why every muscle in her body seemed sore. She sipped the lukewarm liquid. Not particularly good? “This is fucking terrible.” But she was wretched with thirst and she had no idea how long it had been since she’d had anything poured down her throat other than magebane and water. Her hands looked thinner than she remembered. “What the fuck is going on, Anders?” 

“We’re aboard ship back to Kirkwall. We should arrive tomorrow just before noon.” The shadows of the room hid some of the nuance of his expression, but she could see his eyes in the warmth of the light and they were cataloguing her, the wrinkle in her nose, the way her hands shook slightly, the thinning of her mouth. “Keep drinking, Cara.” 

The second drink was worse that the first, but she swallowed it and then shook her head. “Why are we on a boat?” 

There was a beat of silence, lines of weariness on Anders’ face deepening for a moment while he seemed to consider his answer. “What do you remember?” 

“What do you think I fucking remember?” She couldn’t keep the suspicion or the anger out of her voice anymore, which was craggy enough without the threat of some horrible revelation about to be shared. 

“Cara…” Anders voice was low, gentle, but exhausted. There were dark circles under his amber eyes. 

“I remember getting cut with a magebane knife. Of being hauled to Ostwick in a wagon. Well… Topher said we were going to Ostwick. I don’t remember actually getting there.” Her hands trembled as she raised the mug of broth to her lips again, hiding the worried frown that tugged down at the corners of her mouth. “Did you… is that fucker dead?” 

Hawke followed Anders’ gaze down to his hands, which were clenched together on top of his knees. “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear.” 

“So, no. He’s not dead. And Elissa Cousland isn’t dead.” Her hands shook so hard that the broth sloshed over her knuckles. His long fingers darted up to steady hers, clasping them tightly. “Anders…” Her voice broke, hateful traitor that it was. She knew he could hear the pleading in it. She knew the answer to the unvoiced question before he responded, could read it in the way he dropped his gaze. 

“He left with her.” There it was. Right fucking there where she expected it, but somehow it still hurt worse than she’d prepared for. 

“No.” Denial was always helpful. Hawke pressed the heel of her hand over the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. So it was all for nothing? All the shouting and the fighting and the bothering to let him touch her, let him in, and her own pain, binding, drugging, the fear and the dark and the maddening burning itch inside her of magebane and helplessness… all nothing. 

“Listen to me, Cara. He didn’t want to, we tried, but she was going conscript you.” It took a moment for that to pierce through her swirling thoughts. 

Of course, Hawke’s response stayed exactly the same. “I said no.” 

“No, what? You can’t just say ‘no’. Alistair went with her because otherwise you were going to be sent to the Circle to be healed, oh and she said Harrowed with a phylactery and then she’d conscript you, but we both know you, and how many minutes after you woke up do you think it would have been before they made you Tranquil?” His hands left hers to set the mug aside before he cupped her cheeks and leaned closer. “Neither of us could live with it, neither of us could figure out another way. Isabela had nothing. Varric had a location for where they were keeping you, but they weren’t playing any games. It would have been a fight to get you out, and she would have brought all the Wardens’ influence to bear.”

“Tell them to turn the boat around.” Hawke’s stomach was a vise, crushing everything in her middle into a still, hard point that was cutting. Fucking cutting through her. 

The amber of Anders’ eyes glinted a little as they narrowed, and Hawke tucked her chin as he peered at her. “We can’t just turn it around. If you go declaring war on the Warden Commander of Ferelden, when she has every right to demand a deserter--” 

“Fucking void, Anders! Really? A deserter? Is that what you fucking think? You hypocrite. You cocking hypocrite!” Hawke reached up to shove Anders hands away from her face, snarling. She almost bit him when he tried to make her look at him again, and he snatched his fingers back. 

“No, listen, Cara. Listen to me. I’m sorry.” His voice was rough, shaking in his throat, and the ragged edge of his breath made Hawke look at him again, read the pain there. “I am so sorry that we weren’t faster to find you. That they even got out of the city with you. But right now, there isn’t anything you can do for him.” 

The pain puzzled part of Hawke, the part that was still actually thinking about what was happening, wasn’t simply reacting with denial and temper. Anders looked sad, upset. Not just sympathetic or guilty. Not that he should feel guilty. This wasn’t his fault. It was Elissa Cousland who had done this, who hurt him, who would hurt or was hurting Alistair. She grit her teeth. “I can go find that fucking cunt and shove a lightning bolt so far up her fucking ass--” 

He managed to roll his eyes at her. “And then spend the rest of your life a fugitive from the Wardens?” 

“Well, you are and--” 

“There’s a difference between running away and murdering Elissa Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, Arlessa of Amaranthine and you know it.” His hand was warm and steady as it threaded into her hair behind her right ear, pulling her forward until he could press a kiss against her forehead. “I know it hurts, but right now you have to get well. You’re weak. You’re angry now, but you are so…” 

Hawke leaned away from Anders, away from the comfort that he wasn’t just offering, but was also seeking. He wanted her to reassure his fear that he’d lose her, maybe? She shook her head, the movement abrupt and so quick it made her dizzy. “I’m fucking fine, Anders. Just, you can’t ask me to do nothing.” 

His voice cracked again, mouth tight and frustrated. “I can’t ask you? Maker’s sake, Hawke. We came so close to losing you even after they brought you back. Your liver was failing and I can’t let you go get yourself killed trying to save him. You can’t ask that of me, sweetheart.” 

The way he was looking at her made Hawke stop and stare at Anders and she bristled at the pleading she saw in his eyes. “That’s not fair. You… did you learn that from my fucking mother before she died?” The wash of guilt came from two places, two highly painful, fucked up places. She still couldn’t bear the thought of her mother and her death. Now there was somebody else she failed to save to worry over. And here was Anders acting like she was the worst person in Thedas, selfishly throwing her life away, because rushing headlong into danger like a suicidal idiot wasn’t what she was good at? No, not at all. “Andraste’s ass, why did…” She fumbled for someone to blame for this, but no, it was all down to her. She fell silent, went still, hand pressed between her eyes again. The pressure eased some of the weightless spinning that was happening in her skull. 

The hand cupping her head dropped away, rested briefly on her shoulder, and then he took up the mug again. He pushed it back into her hands. “Drink the rest of it. And then go back to sleep. We can talk about this later, when… well. ‘When you’re feeling better’ seems a little trite, hmm?” 

“Fine.” 

She could see Anders from beneath her lashes as tipped her face down toward the mug. His eyes narrowed at her response. “Fine?” 

“Yes, fine. I said fucking fine. Now, fuck off so I can go back to sleep.” 

“You… you don’t want me to stay?” 

The laugh that lurched out her chest seemed to be laced with all the poison that had been poured into her in the last… however fucking long it had been. “If I did I wouldn’t fucking say it out loud. Seems like if I want it that’s the last fucking thing that would happen.” She took a determined swallow of the broth, refusing to look at him directly, but still able to see his face twist and fall for a moment. 

There was silence as he settled back into the chair, not speaking further, but not leaving. She wanted to throw something at Anders, or throw him, possibly off the boat, for letting her wake up in this world. What the fuck were they even going back to Kirkwall for? All that was there was the buckets of guilt that Saemus Dumar’s death had left for her, and the knowledge that when the Viscount crooked his finger, that guilt would make her do anything he asked. All that was there was her empty fucking bed, and the thought that she had cost a good man, a man she had… well. She had cost him his freedom with her own stubborn pride. 

She finished the broth and set the mug aside before scooting stiffly back into the bunk. She dared a glance at Anders and saw his warm eyes watching her with a sharp sort of sadness. When he reached out to smooth her hair she flinched away from it and he sighed, letting his hand fall back to his lap. 

“I’m sorry, Cara. So sorry.” 

She shrugged and didn’t answer. What else could she have expected? The hollowness that settled into her stomach was so familiar it was almost comforting. And didn’t everyone around her expect it as well, this disappointment? 

The dim cabin, the slow rocking, even the sound of Anders soft breathing lulled her, but it wasn’t a safe sort of peace. It was bitter, and there didn’t seem to be anything for it but to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies to people who were waiting for epic rescue shenanigans. Those will come later. But the angst has to simmer first. I've got it over a low flame for a while.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke doesn't handle herself so well with Anders, or liquor, or shoes. Or anything really.

The sky had lately turned violently pink and Hawke was still sitting with her back against the stone coping of the basin of the weirdly useless fountain in the garden of her estate. It was one of those things she puzzled over, one of those _nobility_ things that made her feel so fucking stupid. Because what was it _for_? You couldn’t drink the water. It didn’t water the plants around it. So aside from the tinkle of the falling streams breaking the silence in the interminable stretches of over-warm nights, she had no fucking clue about it. 

The whole garden had that problem. The walls screened some of the noise of the Hightown streets but not all of it. Most of it was too precise to be pretty, not to her eyes anyway. It was architectural. Why couldn’t it just be… real? When she and her mother had first settled in she’d hired an Orlesian horticulturist and he’d laughed when Hawke was disdainful of the poisonous ornamentals they were planting, the depth of her Ferelden upbringing showing. Not that flowers weren’t pretty, or that her mother hadn’t kept small beds of them around the farmhouses Hawke had spent her childhood in… but to have so much space given up to something that wasn’t even comfortable... It was all so fucking useless. 

It was starting to get overgrown. Since her mother’s death there hadn’t been any pruning or cutting and moss was beginning to grow in the cracks between pavers that surrounded the fountain. She could just hear her mother’s exasperated cluck and the shake of her head. _Are you going to let it all tumble back into ruin, darling?_ Yes. Wasn’t it fucking obvious? 

She thumped the back of her head against the edge of the basin softly, rhythmically, looking up at the window of her bedroom where the glass was reflecting the pink and gold back at the sky and sighed. 

After the first four days of bed rest that Anders had insisted on she’d started spending the nights anywhere but in that room. He had been hovering over her, eyes always warm with pity and worry and strain. She’d finally told him that unless he could stop looking like a mabari with a twisted gut, choking on his own shit from the inside, he needed to go back to the clinic and fret over people who actually needed it. 

The flat, hurt look he’d given her had made her hands itch and she thought briefly about slapping herself for making him look that way. But that would have just been unhinged. So she’d watched him go, without ever speaking to him about what had happened. Aside from two brief conversations checking to make sure she was eating they hadn’t spoken at all. 

What would be the use of that, after all? It was done. Two weeks back in Kirkwall, longer than she’d known Alistair in aggregate, and it was done. 

She was so fucking done. 

Done with waking up with a scream climbing her throat because she’d been dreaming of darkness that burned and her arms bound behind her. 

Done with the way she would flare flashes of lightning any time she was startled by a noise. 

Done with glancing over her shoulder and expecting… something. 

It was this raw, bleeding hollow in her gut, that she was done with. And now, on top of that, she’d driven Anders back to Darktown. She was fairly certain he wasn’t sleeping in the manor anymore, hadn’t even been up the past week to eat, maybe wouldn’t be eating at all if Orana wasn’t sending baskets down to him. The way her mouth went sour and ashy and her hands shook when she thought about seeking him out… she pressed her fists into her eyes and refused to think about it. It was better, easier to push them all away. Alone was better. Alone was safer for her, certainly safer for them. If Anders thought he could count on her, fucking void knew she’d fail when it mattered.

So these were her mornings now. Found dew-damp in the garden from refusing to sleep in her bedroom because it was too silent. But once the sounds of the day began clattering around the Hightown streets she couldn’t stay in the garden, because the noises of all those people closed in on her and her head wouldn’t stop swiveling toward the sources. 

Those sounds were starting as the sun cleared the horizon and the sky had turned a pale blue-grey that would ripen to azure by noon. She levered herself up, shaking the pins and needles out of her legs and turned toward the house. She could probably grab a nap in the library now. It faced east and was always full of light this time of day, and that helped her dreams tend away from too dark and too long. In so much light she could sleep, but not too deeply. 

She took the door in through the downstairs solar, avoiding the kitchen where Orana would be at work, with Sandal lending simple assistance and Bodhan going over ledgers or cost sheets or making fucking marzipan ogres for all she knew. Hawke was avoiding them too.

When the door of the solar fell shut behind her she turned through the reception hall and froze when she heard rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. She looked up and there was Anders, escaped strands hair falling wild around his face, trotting down from the upper storey. When he saw her his face sagged with relief, which was echoed in the unfurling of some of her own cold tension at the sight of his warm eyes. And then he spoke. 

“Andraste’s flaming ass, Hawke, where have you been?” 

She blinked and then stiffened, resuming her path toward the library. “Out.” _Hawke_ was it? Anders was never consistent with his names for her, but Hawke was almost always reserved for business anymore, or company he didn’t trust. It made her throat ache but no, that was fine. If he was calling her Hawke now, that was fine. Remember? It was better. She’d told him to fuck off for a reason. 

That reason was her cowardice, sure, but that was her personal bullshit. 

“Out. Out?” He was just behind her and she could smell Darktown on him, the sweet-sick stink of it not quite masking the cold sting of lyrium and mixed earthy spice of his herbs. “Just out. Is that _out_ like ass up in an alley, or _out_ like drunk in a ditch, or if it’s _none of your damn business, Anders_ you could just say that.” 

She rounded on him in the doorway to the library. “Why are you fucking screeching at me? I was _out_ as in out in my fucking garden because I can’t sleep while it’s dark in my fucking room so fuck off you fucking sewer rat.” By the end of that Hawke was the one screeching, probably. Anders blinked at her slowly and dropped his eyes from her face to her balled fists. She followed his gaze down when she saw the worry there, and fuck, they were incandescent. She shook the lightning away with a suppressed snarl. 

“Cara, what… oh.” 

Oh no. No, fuck no. His eyes had turned gentle again, from the unexpected, sprawling fury that she’d what? Been out drinking and fucking strangers? That was what he’d been implying, right? But now, he was looking all sappy and stupid and that was the last thing she fucking wanted. 

“Maker, Anders, go away. I’m tired.” She bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep her lips from quivering, letting her gaze fall down and away from his earnest, worried stare. 

“If you aren’t sleeping I’m not surprised.” 

She snorted, the glottal noise she hated. She was done talking. Yep, done. She lifted her eyes to his face and fixed them an inch in front of his nose, a cold, distant stare. If she could keep it up long enough he would relent and go away again. She would be able to sleep in snatches and slips through the afternoon, and then… then she could go find something to kill. 

For the first time since that night outside the Chantry before she’d bumbled into Topher and his Doglord hirelings, Hawke really wanted to find something to kill. 

Even though she wasn’t meeting his eyes she could see them tighten and grow grieved. Hurt again. Then he shook his head sharply, lips moving silently and his own gaze turning hazy and inward. Some kind of discussion with Justice, and fuck if she didn’t miss that uncomplicated asshole right now. 

“No, okay. You’re right. I’ll go and let you rest. Just take care of yourself, Hawke.” _Hawke_. She had to strangle the sound of pain that tried to crawl up her throat at the distance that snapped between them so quickly. He ducked his head and turned away, shoulders bowed and every line of his body exhausted. 

She watched him go and then curled into one of the chairs in front of the cold hearth, wrapping her arms around her head, trying to fend off the crashing guilt at how hurt he had looked. He had probably been awake all night working and worrying and throwing himself against the hopeless causes of illness, and poverty, and Meredith fucking Stannard’s madness, only to come _home_ , a home she had forced on him and then unceremoniously, without explanation made him no longer exactly welcome in, to check on her and she’d just… fuck.

It wasn’t fair, but fair wasn’t really something she was all that close to. She maybe had seen it on the street, not any of Kirkwall’s streets, but, maybe it was out there. She’d never shaken fair’s hand though, or taken it to bed. Really, how would she even know fair from a fucking genlock? Maybe it was fair, and fair just wanted to gnaw the faces off of people, same as a darkspawn? 

She wasn’t crying. She knocked her head against her drawn up knees to remind herself of that. No crying, no Anders, no Alistair. Obviously fair wasn’t about her anymore, it was about them, and she’d do whatever it took so that her fucking misery wasn’t brushing up against them, clammy, and unfair, and scared of the dark. 

* * *

The warm weight that thumped against Hawke’s side surprised her and she jerked her head up from where it had listed dangerously close to the mug on the table in front of her. If she hadn’t been so fucking drunk the pirate might have been screaming and bleeding from her eyesockets. But by the time her sharp panic caught up to her, Hawke had parsed the cinnamon and sandalwood scent of Isabela as the arm looped around her neck. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, sweet girl.” 

“Not hiding.” Hawke fumbled the cup of brandy in front of her and then took a drink, refusing to glance up into Isabela’s face. The chair on the other side of the table was filled with someone short and smirking. “Drinking.” That she was drinking in the Tidewater Tart instead for the Hanged Man definitely meant something, though she wasn’t sure she knew exactly what that was. She was very fucking drunk. 

“That isn’t what we heard from our healer friend.” Varric leaned across the table just a touch. 

“Anders might be a fucking idiot but even he should be able to fucking see I’m fucking drinking, Varric.”

Hawke had to squint to decide that Varric was grimacing instead of smirking at her, and that made her list forward slightly. Her head spun a little as the arm draped across her shoulder jerked her back upright and Isabela’s throaty chuckle brushed against her cheek. “See, Varric, she’s fine. Our sweet little hawklet, like always.” 

“Yeah. Fine. Just fucking fine.” Hawke closed one eye to fix the other on Varric so that she could focus on his swimming, shifting form. 

“Sure you are. But Blondie? He isn’t doing so well without you around to fuss over him.” 

“Anders is a grown fucking man. He can put his own cock away after he pisses without my help, Varric.” 

Isabela’s laugh was a warm, rolling bell and Hawke leaned into her. She nuzzled against the warm fall of her curls and the pirate squeezed her tighter, purring. 

“Not really an image I needed, Hawke.”

Hawke hiccuped in response, trying to ignore the slow roil of nausea that had awakened in stomach. Then she snorted. “Yeah, me touching Anders cock is really just the most shit ridiculous shit anyone ever heard.” 

“You might want to watch where she’s pointed there, Rivani. She just turned three separate shades of green.” 

“Oh, hawklet, if the thought of touching Anders cock makes you green you’ve been going about this man thing all wrong.” 

“What?” Hawke wasn’t thinking about touching Anders cock, not at all. That had long since been tabled as the worst of ideas. “I don’t think about touching it. He wouldn’t let me fucking near it even if I wanted to. Which I never fucking have. Ever.” She stiffened away from Isabela and her head swam again, and her stomach flipped, and she couldn’t figure out why her cheeks were burning and was she really thinking about Anders naked because that ship had fucking sailed and he’d scuttled it at the bottom of the harbor? 

It was easier than thinking about Alistair at all, naked or otherwise, though so why the fuck not think about the disaster that had been?

The Deep Roads hadn’t been a good time, but they’d been pure in their motivation. Keep killing, keep moving, get out. It was a vicious sort of clarity that had put her in one of the horniest fucking moods in her life and Anders had been there, and they’d become so close, and it seemed like it made sense at the time. It wasn’t like Varric was going to oblige her, and well Fenris was still… a dangerous possibility that made her ache but wasn’t someone she could casually touch or just throw her arms around and stuff her tongue down his throat without fearing she’d be disemboweled. 

Anders, though? They’d been easy with each other, and he flirted and she smirked and it seemed obvious one night in the dark and the cold to slide up next to him and push herself against his chest. It had taken her several minutes to realize he wasn’t responding in the way she’d expected. His mouth warm and soft, but hands gentling, body present but not… engaged. He never got all the way hard, in fact, and she’d pulled back and seen such a ravine of pain in the wrinkle between his brows that she’d flushed and stammered and wandered away. It took months before she’d been able to sit on the same bench with him at the Hanged Man without it being awkward. But by then it was put away out of embarrassment, buried under the pure _want_ that had settled somewhere in the curling Fenris’ lips when he sneered. 

For fuck’s sake was she thinking about that too? Because that had turned out to be another sparkling use of her judgement and time. And embarrassment over that had led her to Alistair… and shitting void, where had that led her? Maybe Isabela was right and feeling and relationships were bullshit. She certainly wasn’t any good at them.

She shuddered under Isabela’s arm, blinking blearily as she remembered where she was and who was with her. She didn’t really do much of anything well other than death, actually. 

“We should get her home. She’s shivering.” Isabela’s voice was quiet but firm and Varric sighed in agreement. The arm that had been settled across her shoulders slid lower around Hawke’s waist and heaved her up. Isabela was strong, the muscles in her arms flexing easily, snugging Hawke against her hip and she closed her eyes against all the spinning and swimming the room was suddenly doing.

The threshold to the street was a challenge because none of the bricks seemed to hold fucking still and there was a grunt as another arm steadied her. “Do you really think we’re getting her back to Hightown like this, Rivaini?” 

“Well, we could just roll her onto the lift and deliver her to Anders. Give him something actual to flap his hands at.” 

That snapped Hawke’s eyes open and she shook her head hard. She hadn’t seen him since that morning three… no four days ago. “No. Nope. Fuck. What? Home. Or… back inside. No oh no.” These fuckers weren’t holding her steady and that meant… sour brandy all over her shoes in the street and Hawke nearly pitched face-first into it. 

“Better out than in?” Isabela’s fingers were on Hawke’s neck, callused and warm.  
Varric’s gravelly grunt sounded less than pleased and Hawke just wanted to lie down until the ground figured out what in the void it was doing and settled. When she sank that way they caught her, and that made her stomach heave again, and fuck that was awful. It wasn’t bad brandy until she was trying not to spew it out her nose. 

“Okay, the lift is closer. No arguments, Hawke. You want to lie down? That’s the nearest best bet.” 

Her feet were moving and despite the fact that her knees were either locking or collapsing, more a constant falling-not-quite-down than walking, she started talking. She couldn’t remember three words together after she said them, but she was talking and talking and she couldn’t stop, no matter that she had no idea what she was saying. It was a relief when she had to stop and vomit again. 

She choked and spat and then the words began again and whatever she was saying neither Varric nor Isabela were laughing.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair finally has some facetime with Elissa. Their conversation is not satisfactory or reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Elissa. She sure is... something. I know you guys will let me know what you think of her. :)

The sound of a fist rattling against the door of Alistair’s room would have startled him awake if he’d managed more than a few fitful hours of sleep the night before. Instead, it merely startled him. And then irritated him. That irritation was compounded by the voice that came after, calm, almost bored calling through the pale and polished birch, “Commander wants you down at breakfast, Theirin.” 

Something about the way that _Howe_ used his last name always left no doubt that he would be calling him _bastard_ if he could. Why he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, Alistair wouldn’t give one fig to know. He didn’t care. He only cared that since he’d surrendered himself to the custody of Elissa’s Wardens two weeks ago, he hadn’t spoken to her once. 

If he had been expecting to be clapped in irons, transported in chains to Ferelden with all haste, which given every horrible thing that had happened since Teagan had appeared in Kirkwall, had seemed likely, Alistair was disappointed. Instead there was a small squadron of some fifteen Grey Wardens from Ferelden and the Free Marches that eyed him with stony disdain, and the whole party had made for the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads to travel north to Ansburg that way.

Elissa hadn’t even been among them.

It had been enough to make his blood boil, everything that had happened, all the anguish she had caused because of him, and she hadn’t even seen fit to be the one to take custody of him when he surrendered himself. It was a bit stinging slap that said he wasn’t important, and all the fuss he’d been making meant so very little in the end. 

But if he wasn’t important why did she care where he was in the first place? Was it only that his continued refusal to simply die in obscurity (he’d prefer to live in obscurity, thanks) was causing everyone problems? He didn’t know. A week out of the Deep Roads and two nights in the Warden compound outside Ansburg, and maybe he’d finally get his answers. 

The _Commander_ wanted him at breakfast. 

“Did you hear me?” The fist thumped twice more. “Breakfast, downstairs, now. And put your bloody tabard on.” Howe’s footsteps were silent, but the way his muttering diminished let Alistair know he was moving down the hallway. 

The Ansburg compound was a whole demesne, with a keep, outbuildings, large tracts of woodland, and best of all, a Deep Roads entrance. Though quiescent at the moment it was constantly patrolled. The proximity to both Antiva and the Minanter River gave it a near cosmopolitan positioning for a Warden outpost.

Alistair had been given private quarters in the keep itself, away from the barracks, which suited him fine because it meant fewer of the appraising, mistrustful looks from the other Wardens. In the Deep Roads things had moved in a strangely familiar blur of killing handfuls of darkspawn in the oppressive silence of the stinking darkness. The others had chattered around him, let him fight, but he was separate, that was clear. When he’d asked Howe where they were going he’d been told, simply, that it was none of his concern. He should keep his mouth shut and march, _deserter_ , until the Commander could deal with him. 

Well, keeping his mouth shut wasn’t something that Alistair had ever been particularly good at, but pointed jabs and sarcasm only reminded him of the old days, and more recently Anders, and that was enough to keep his tongue clenched between his teeth and his eyes cast down. 

He emerged from his room dressed in clothes that he’d been outfitted with upon arrival, simple tunic and leathers, something that light mail could go over but was completed by a tabard. It seemed odd to force the colors of the Wardens on someone being treated as an almost-prisoner, a deserter, and Alistair couldn’t quit scowling down at the blue and silver the covered his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was accusing him of something, or he was accusing it, but there was definitely some mistrust between him and the tabard. 

Mistrustful of a tabard. The silence must have really been getting to him. 

A servant at the bottom of the stairs pointed him away from the great hall where breakfast was usually served communally to a study on the second floor. When the door opened and he saw Elissa rising from a spot at a low table set with enough food for six grown men, or two wardens having a light meal, he froze. 

Six months ago? A year? His throat would have closed and his eyes stung and maybe he would have fallen to his knees and pressed his face into her stomach when she extended her hands to him in greeting. 

What? Why was she… so close? 

Her hands fell on either side of his face and she smiled up at him. Her hair was longer than he remembered, bright auburn drawn back into a braid with fringe hanging in her eyes. She was tall, taller than most women Alistair knew, though still more than hand shorter than him. The tilt of her head was not extreme when she met his eyes with a soft, tender smile, and her thumbs brushed over his cheeks. 

That actually… stung. It hurt somewhere between his skin and his heart to be touched by her like that. It made him jerk back from her. Her smile became a little indulgent, and she shook her head slightly as she put a hand on his forearm. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Ali. Come, sit. It seems we need to talk.” 

His eyes jerked from her face to the fingers on his arm and back. “Talking? Oh, good, talking, yes, because that’s the step after blackmail, threats, kidnapping, and poisoning. Then comes the talking.” 

She tugged lightly at his arm as she laughed, merry, ringing and it made his stomach drop with yearning. Not for her, no, not at all. For maybe a time when he would have believed in the warmth there? No, mostly he just wished to be anywhere but in her presence. 

“Really? I’m almost certain that Teagan started with a request for you to simply read a letter or two, and then maybe come home to Ferelden for a chat. That was my first choice. Sad it didn’t quite go to plan, hmm?” Her fingers were strong, rogue’s fingers, swift with a knife, steady on a bowstring, and they tightened over his wrist for a moment before releasing him. “Is this where you pout and pretend you’re not hungry? I could have waited to meet with you after breakfast if it was going to put you off your feed like this. You’re no use to anyone if you waste away.” 

He followed closer to the table, drawn in her wake. It was an incredibly familiar sensation. She was still confident, and beautiful, and something about the way that she carried herself made people want to prove they were useful, worthy of her. It made his skin crawl. “So I’m supposed to be of use? To someone? Who exactly? And how? Because it doesn’t seem like you need me to kill darkspawn. You have plenty of… of mooks to do that for you.” 

The curve of her eyebrow lifted in tandem with the smile that curved her lips. “I have mooks?” 

He tried to glare, but maybe he was only managing to look sullen. “Lackeys.” It was hard to draw up his usual defense. The stakes seemed to high to simply make light of. 

She pressed two fingers over her lips for a moment, staring at him with flashing eyes. “I have Wardens, you mean.” 

“That’s not what I said, was it?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Hangers-on, then.” 

“Ali.” The edge to her voice had become crisp, impatient. 

He shrugged at her. “Bootlickers?”

“Honestly, Alistair.” 

“Thugs!” 

She brushed her fingers over her hips briskly, frowning at him, and her tone was almost disappointed. “Would Duncan be impressed that you describe your brothers and sisters that way?” 

As if she’d known anything about Duncan, or the Wardens that came before her Joining. “Well, Duncan didn’t, to my knowledge, employ actual thugs. Who did things like kidnap and poison innocent people.” 

“All of this…” She flicked her fingers vaguely at him. “...is about that girl?” 

Alistair folded his arms to hide how his fists were clenched and how close he was to hitting something. Her? Could he hit her? Hitting women wasn’t something he’d ever thought was really a good idea, but he’d also seen her nearly decapitate a genlock with one long-bladed knife. He probably wouldn’t even be able to land a punch if he threw one. “We’re not talking about her.” 

“Well, since she’s the only person that I know of that has recently been kidnapped or poisoned by a ‘thug’ in my employ, technically we are.” She seated herself with graceful ease. But wasn’t there a time when she had looked wild-eyed, scratched and bloody as they climbed the Tower of Ishal, fierce and gleaming when she stood in front of the werewolves of the Brecilian forest? She had been passionate, and playful, and terrifying. When had that changed? Or when had he changed enough to see the artifice in it. “Speaking of Topher, he’s in the dungeons waiting for you to deal with him.” 

He blinked at the sudden shift in topic, and then narrowed his eyes at her. “What?” 

“The _thug_ you seem so peevish about. He’s in the dungeons. I’m giving his life to you, since it was your...” She paused briefly, that eyebrow twitching upward again. “Well, your friend that was hurt by him.” 

The words still weren’t making any extra sense even though she said them again, said them slower, said more of them. “What?” 

“You haven’t gotten any quicker with these things, have you?” She sighed, reaching for her cup of tea, and nodded to the chair across from her. “I understand you aren’t going to be able to settle to your situation without some kind of… reparation. The girl was hurt unnecessarily, with no prior orders to secure a hostage against you, and she did nearly die. I have been assured there was no ungentlemanly conduct against her, but--”

Elissa fell silent with a slight click of her tongue when Alistair stalked forward, looming over her. “I heard she was kept tied and drugged in the dark. I heard that she was threatened with…” He couldn’t force words past his thick throat, imagining Caralyn, weak and ill, at this Topher’s mercy, threatened with worse, and he leaned down over his former lover, staring at her, and she looked briefly, frankly frightened. “Don’t act like anything that happened to her was kind or tender or… or _just_ , Elissa!”

“No, dearheart, of course it wasn’t.” The indulgent, nearly flirtatious note was back in her voice and he felt the bile rise in his throat. “That’s why I’m letting you decide what happens to him. You can ask him what he did, how he treated her, and you get to decide what happens to him in return. That seems fair to me.” She reached up to brush a hand against the side of his neck and he jerked upright with a quick backward step, and the quirk to her lips, the way her eyes flicked downwards, lashes dipping, let him know that she was amused. She had wanted to force him out of looming over her and he had been easily steered… the woman was a viper. 

“You can go to the void.” The venom he managed to speak with surprised him. It seemed to surprise Elissa as well. Her eyes widened slightly and she sat up a little straighter, looking up into his face. 

“Alistair, I…” 

“What? Did you think that dragging me back here, against my will, hurting and threatening the people that I… I care about was going to make me happy to see you?” He needed to let those people go now, didn’t he? Or could he push back, find a way out, and set himself free? “Because you’re Elissa Cousland, and everyone loves you, and I’m some… some big bloody idiot who deserted in the middle of the Blight because I couldn’t stand to see you make the man who killed hundreds of people for his own pride, including your bloody family, into a hero?” 

“That’s enough, Ali.” 

“No, it isn’t enough. When you said yes to Loghain, when you let him become one of us, what… what if that had been Rendon Howe?” The words were bubbling up out of him faster now, the occasional stumble or stammer, but he pushed on, years worth of questions rambling and rattling through. “What if he was the one who Riordan wanted to save from disgrace and execution with the Joining? And I was the one who could say ‘yes’? What then? Would you have stood by?” He watched her sharp chin lift, eyes flashing and talked over her when she started to speak. “Noooo. I think you wouldn’t have even refused to follow me anymore and gotten yourself exiled. I think you would have probably taken your big bloody knife and stabbed it in my idiot heart, and that would have been that!” 

Her slipped further and she stood, hands clasped too tightly to be natural in front of her, eyes just a fraction too wide. “Rendon Howe was not the Hero of River Dane. He was a worm. A murderer and a sadist and there was nothing redeemable about him!” 

“And Loghain was some great man who had simply lost his way, who only needed your help to find his feet again, his honor and his nobility and what were you even thinking, Elissa? I loved you!” That… that was not something he wanted to say, but it was true, and it felt good to say it out loud somehow, to locate it in the past, a thing he no longer felt, a person he no longer was. “How could you just throw that in my face and treat me like a child! How could you let him be the hero when all our struggle was his fault? How could you look at him and see anything other than a… a horrible scoundrel?” 

“Don’t you see that’s what I’m doing now, Alistair?” 

“What?” That damn word again, but her question confused him and he shook his head. “What does this have to do with Loghain?”

Her voice was soft, and her eyes were wet, and Alistair couldn’t tell her false face from her real one. “You don’t even see how far you’ve fallen. A mercenary, a murderer for hire, following an illegal mage through the streets of Kirkwall killing for money. You had a purpose with the Wardens. You had a home. And you were the one who walked away from that.” 

He shook his head, trying to deny her words but his tongue was rough and sandy in his mouth. No words would come. 

“Yes. Yes! Look at me.” Her face, oval, refined, regal. Delicate mouth, a graceful line, the russet of her lashes dampened to black with tears around her brown eyes. It was a face he remembered trusting, remember believing in, and now… now it was just… he couldn’t find the word for it. “I only wanted you to come home. To have a reason for being again. A purpose. Someplace you fit. That’s what you used to want. Or did you change so much that dissolution and ignominity is enough? You’d rather be a vagrant than a man who stands for something?” 

That wasn’t right. He meant something. He had been close to love, to… something like a family. Hadn’t he? He scrubbed his hands up through his hair, wishing desperately for some of those hours of sleepless tossing back. It would make more sense if he were better rested, but he’d never been able to think his way around Elissa’s arguments, and when her voice climbed slightly, became unsteady with tears, he had always simply wanted to melt and wrap his arms around her and protect her from whatever was hurting her. But now it was him, and he really didn’t want to touch her, would rather not remember he ever had. 

She took a long, steadying breath and then looked down at her knotted fingers before letting it out slowly. “I know you were a good man once. I hope you will be again. I need you here, to do your duty to both the Wardens and Ferelden. I hope you will understand that.” Her eyes shifted back up to his. “You can go now. If you wish to see Topher in the dungeons the guards will have instructions to let you in. You are free to use the sparring grounds and the library. When you are ready to have a grown-up discussion about why you are here, send word and I’ll have Nathaniel schedule you in.” Then she flicked her glance, with the tiniest lift of her chin toward the door behind him and he found himself retreating without really making the choice to move. 

The door to his room rattled on its hinges when he threw it open, the anger swelling inside him burning in the palms of his hands and the center of his chest and who did she think she was speaking of? Maker’s breath, a good man? Had he ever been a _good man_? If he was such a good man why had she thrown him away so easily? And calling Caralyn a murderer for hire? She was barely holding that latrine of a city together, full of mad Templars, mad blood mages, mad Qunari! 

He paced the short length of the room, feeling the blood surging under his skin slowly cool, his heart settle, and in the wake of the fury he felt ill. He looked down at his hands and then clenched them closed so hard his knuckles creaked. Yes, he used to have a place in the world. A home with the Wardens. And now? Now he could have that again if he fell into step with Elissa and some part of him ached to have that back. 

Alistair shook his head, hands fisting in his hair and then falling to his sides as he sat heavily on the bed. He didn’t want _this_ , but what else was there for him? He’d given himself up to see Caralyn safe, to let her go back to her life, to keep Elissa away from both her and Anders, and if he tried to run back there wouldn’t that just reopen the wound? 

So now he waited or gave up or gave in? The next time he entered the Deep Roads he let the darkspawn take him? Then at least he wouldn’t be a puppet to the Ferelden crown or Weisshaupt or whoever was jerking at the leash he hadn’t even realized he wore. It wouldn’t surprise him at this point if Elissa was working for the bloody Black Divine, it all made so little sense, and seemed to have so little to do with him. The frustration lay heavy in his stomach, stung behind his eyes. He thought he’d be able to figure out what in the Maker’s name all this was about quickly, figure out how to resign himself to his fate. Instead he was stuck waiting on her pleasure, following her demands, and it was like the last four years of his life measured to nothing but bitterness, and the resounding knowledge that he should know better. 

Well he should. He should know better than to think he knew what he was doing in this sucking mire of politics and subtlety. That tugged a harsh laugh from him and he shook his head. Well it was a rampant lack of subtlety that Caralyn had offered and that Anders had ended up tendering. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and shut his eyes against the swell of guilt that he could ache so hard for her and still find time to think of him at the oddest times. 

At least he had done this right. He’d been a coward years ago when he’d walked away from the Wardens, maybe. He’d been a coward when he let Caralyn stand between him and Bann Teagan. He’d been a coward even when he waited to give himself up until she’d been in danger of dying, but at least he’d done it. If she had died, come to lasting harm on his behalf… he never would have been able to live with that. 

Maker’s ass, he hoped she was alright. That Anders had healed her, seen her safely home, and that she would stay clear of whatever madness this turned out to be. Elissa may be playing a game of sighs and soft eyes and offers of home and forgiveness, and Alistair might be a stupid man in many ways, but he was certain this was a sucking mire with dead things and rusty knives and broken glass waiting at the bottom.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke believes herself to be a human disaster, and Anders doesn't even know what is happening by the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long and full of Caralyn's unique uhh perspective and decision making process. And by unique I mean compromised. And by compromised I mean... troubled.

Hawke was positive things should fucking hurt. The back of her throat should be raw, and when she swallowed there was supposed to be the heavy, acrid burning of magebane in her gut. She coughed preemptively, but the sensation wasn’t there. 

This was getting to be a fucking habit. A sudden flash, the expectation of the rocking of the wagon, the rocking of a ship, the ropes, whatever the fuck else she thought was happening, it was gone and the smell of Darktown, faint beneath herbs and strong lye soap came rushing over her and she wondered why, when the inside of her mouth tasted like she’d been licking brandy off the ground in the alley outside the Hanged Man, she wasn’t already vomiting. 

Everything should fucking hurt, given how she didn’t remember much from the day before, but it didn’t, which meant… Anders. 

She opened her eyes slowly, grimacing at the grittiness in them, the way her eyelashes clumped and stuck together. There was faint, gray light coming from the high windows on the far wall, which was a relief. She turned her head and saw the rawboned frame of the healer in the chair at his desk, but he was unconscious on it, head pillowed on one curled arm. 

The sight of him, slumped in a way that was going to make his back one long knotted rope of muscle spasms, made her jaw clench and her fingers twitch and her heart just fucking hurt. She… she missed him. 

But there wasn’t time for that now. She had to get up and get out of the clinic before he woke up and she had to look at his face and try to pretend to hate him even half as much as she hated herself so that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself in front of him. For Anders she could be stronger. She hadn’t been strong enough for Alistair, but she wasn’t going to make that same mistake. 

Hawke swung her feet off the cot, grimacing as she realized she was dressed in one of Anders tatty linen shirts that hung nearly to her knees and her underclothes. Where the fuck were her robes? She hoped she’d arrived here wearing clothes. The heat was rising in her face as she took an unsteady step away from the cot. At least if she could find her things she could get her key. It seemed likely whatever she was wearing was covered in gutter filth and spilled brandy at the very least. With the key she could just dash to the cellar door half-dressed if she had to. 

Of course Anders was neat, and organized, when he wasn’t being a completely frantic disaster, which meant she immediately tripped over her shoes set next to the cot, hiding in the shadows, and stumbled to her knees with something that was way fucking closer to a snarl than a yelp. 

The sound that was not a yelp woke Anders with a start and he stood before his eyes were focused, chair clattering backwards and hands glowing with pale fire. Hawke flinched from the haggard lines around his mouth, the dark shadows under his eyes. She looked down at the floor as she righted herself, avoiding meeting his gaze as his face turned toward her. 

The glowing faded quickly and Anders cleared his throat. “Cara, you shouldn’t be up.” From the corner of her eye she saw him moving around his desk slowly, pace more hesitant than measured, and when she shifted enough to study him sidelong she could see the weary, wary tension in his face. 

Hawke’s neck, her jaw, her sternum ached with the sudden tension of hearing Anders say her name. It was at least partially the defensiveness in his tone, prickly, a little sharp, as if he was waiting for her to lash out. Or maybe she’d finally pissed him off enough that he was over and done with her bullshit. Wouldn’t that be a relief? 

She pushed her hair back from her face where it was matted, she hoped with just sweat and sleep, grimacing. “Well, I’m fucking up. Give me my clothes and I’ll get out of your way.” 

“Oh good, I was wondering.” There was something like a drawl in Anders’ tone that tugged her eyes to his face, where his eyes were narrowed and one corner of his mouth tugged upward in a smirk. 

She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking what the fuck he was talking about. “Clothes, Anders?” 

“Soaking the bile out of them in the washtub. From where you threw up on yourself. Repeatedly.” He folded his arms across his chest, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Were you trying to drink yourself to death? Or was that an unforeseen benefit of crawling inside a bottle?” 

The muscle in her jaw twitched and ached as she looked away from him, trying to spy her belt and pouches. It was none of his business what she was trying to do. She just wished she could remember how in the void she’d got to the clinic. She wouldn’t bring herself, even shitting-her-own-pants drunk, would she? She grimaced and moved toward the shelves behind his desk.

He stepped smoothly in to intercept her and she had to draw up short, hands balling into fists. Closer she could see the pain in his eyes, but he was managing his glittering smirk, the mean one, so well she could ignore it. She tried to step around him but he moved with her and she whirled away toward the door. Fuck this. She’d just blow the cellar door off its hinges and have Bodhan get someone to repair it later. 

“He gave his freedom away for your life and this is what you’re going to do with it?” His tone was bitter, far harsher than she expected. “Push all of your friends away until you’re alone and then hope you fall into the harbor and drown instead of choking on your own vomit?” 

She tried to wet her lips with her tongue, but her whole mouth was parched and tacky, and her voice caught in her throat as she turned on him. She couldn’t even find the words that she wanted to say, too caught by the raw anguish that was flashing in Anders’ eyes, and suddenly her fury, boiling and murderous, seemed to evaporate. Her voice was small and soft and cold. “We should be so fucking lucky.” 

When she spoke, Hawke expected it to push Anders into further bitter, angry ranting, something that she could let buffett her out the door and back to her house. That was what was supposed to happen, he’d get fucking furious at her and when she slunk away that would be that, he’d have some fresh fracture that welled with hate, hating her for being so cocking awful. Instead he practically dove for her and jerked her up against his chest and buried his face in her hair. She could feel him shaking against her from his knees to his throat where she was pressed into him, stiff and brittle. “Please, Cara. Please, forgive me.” 

The way his voice broke, the real note of pleading in it made Hawke sag a little, her hands coming up to grab his coat on the sides to keep herself steady, or him, she ccouldn’t tell. “What? Why the fuck--” 

“I’m so sorry. Please, sweetheart. I know you’re angry that we weren’t faster, but I can’t lose you. Not after... and Maker’s ass, you already came so close to dying, and he didn’t want to go, and I didn’t want to let him, but Elissa had it all sewn up so tightly.” He drew breath, the intake rushed and audible before he rambled on. “Nate said you were really, truly ill, and I just couldn’t let you die. You have to know that I couldn’t let you die so we made the trade. Please don’t hate me, you have to live. I need you to live. He…” She could hear his throat clicking as he swallowed convulsively. “Please.” 

Anders thought she blamed him? Anders thought she _blamed_ him? He wasn’t the only one trembling. She was shaking and his arms tightened further around her shoulders as she shook her head. “You are a fucking idiot. You are a _fucking idiot_.” 

He let out a sharp laugh, letting his grip loosen enough so that he could look down at her, eyebrows knitted in a deep frown that was at odds with the slight purse to his lips. “It’s amazing that I can’t tell if that’s you accepting my apology or not.” 

“No, I’m not accepting your fucking ridiculous shitbrained apology you… you fucking idiot.” She watched his skin pale, his eyes shifting away from her face. Fucking _idiot_. She wrenched her arms out from under his, his hands having lapsed to stiff and cold, and placed her hands on either side of his neck, thumbs on his jaw and tugged his gaze back to hers. “It’s mine. My fault. You should fucking hate me, not ask me to forgive you. I… I fucked up, Anders. And I’m going to keep fucking up, and everyone is going to get fucked up by my fuckups. More than they already have.” 

His eyes widened and mouth opened in surprise. “What are you talking about, Cara?” 

Could he really not see? She studied him closely, eyes searching for some kind of recrimination, some kind of fucking reality in his face. She was gripping his jaw line tightly, and the only shift in his expression was to become more worried. He raised one hand to gently hold her wrist, though he didn’t try to pull it away. His thumb gently brushed hers and he just waited. 

He was fucking waiting. 

“Hey, love, what? Please, tell me.” His hand left her wrist to reach for her face and she flinched without really knowing why, but instead of pulling at her jaw or grabbing her hair, things he would never do anyway, his fingers brushed tears off her cheek. “Please.” 

She was crying. She was a cocking disaster. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.” She sounded like a pouting child, voice tiny, trembling. She ground her teeth tightly. 

His eyebrows went from concerned to incredulous. “You don’t… well you certainly have the worst way of showing people that.” 

“Fuck you.” She grimaced at how easy, how familiar this was all of a sudden, and how much better she felt with his steadying hands on her, close enough to smell him, feel his warmth, and fucking void, why was she working so hard to push him away?

He snorted softly and shook his head. “Not until you have a bath at least.” 

It wasn’t out of bounds for them, this droll, sarcastic flirting but something made the retort ring in her ears and burn in her cheeks. She dropped her eyes to the ground, trying to sort through the last day or so, most of which she only vaguely remembered. “How did I get here?” 

“Ah. Isabela and Varric dropped you off last night.” 

“I… oh.” She let her hands slide away from his face, and then pressed her knuckles hard into her eyes, stopping before they would bruise, but only just. “Well, isn’t that fucking fantastic.” 

“Mm. Not so bad, I think.” One of his hands cupped her chin and lifted gently so that he could study her face again. “It’s the first time you’ve said more than three sentences to me since we’ve been back in Kirkwall. That’s something.” His tone gentled despite the prodding, and his hand smoothed over her hair, too gentle, and too kind and she nearly swayed with the wave of warmth that came with it. “The last time I saw you, you said you weren’t sleeping…” 

“Well, the brandy helped with that some.” 

“Hawke.” 

She flinched again at the sound of her surname and shook her head at his warning tone. “What the fuck do you want me to say? Being alone in the dark is just about the worst thing I can think of all of a sudden? That I fucked up, got caught, and now I’m all wrecked?” Her voice was rising in pitch, throat tightening, and she was getting louder as well. “Alistair is a prisoner, what if they kill him? That’s my fault. Saemus and my mother were murdered because I was too thick to get the fucking job done. And now because I was too stupid and pigheaded and fucking full of myself to not walk out of my house and into a trap Alistair could die too. What if she executes him? What if he tries to run and they just kill him in cold blood?” 

Anders arms closed tightly around her again, drawing her close to his chest until she had run down. “You… none of those things are your fault. You aren’t the one who killed Saemus or your mother. You didn’t hire anyone to hurt Alistair or you. You… Andraste’s ruddy ass, Cara, you are just about the only thing holding this town together so that normal people can live here.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and then whispered, “And you don’t have to be alone in the dark. I… I’ll be there, whenever you need me. Just, please, forgive me.” 

There was a stabbing relief, so sharp and sudden it swept the breath right out of Hawke’s lungs and she buried her face against Anders’ sternum. She needed to still her breathing, no more tears. Fuck it. Fuck this. Anders didn’t hate her, and suddenly she was shattered with how glad that made her. “There’s nothing to forgive, you idiot.” She wished she could reach his hair, give it the sharp tug that her fingers itched for, just to remind them both that things could be normal, even if it had to be a lie for now until it could be true. 

There was a long breath of silence as Anders’ hand froze on her shoulders. She could feel the tension, sense him go away inside, and when she peered up at him he gave his head a sharp shake, mouth tense and unhappy. 

“You and Justice in a disagreement about that apology?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Would it be easier to talk about at home? Because…” She narrowed her eyes at him when he looked away. “It’s still your fucking home too.” 

“I… yes. At least there will be a bath for you. And food. I healed what I could, but you still need your strength, and leave off your poor liver for a few weeks, won’t you?” He frowned at her, and she lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug that was agreement without agreeing. He rolled his eyes, but read it for what it was. “But the bath is essential because Maker, Cara, you smell like something that Isabela tracked up from a Dockside slaughterhouse.” 

“Oh and you’re one to talk, you fucking sewer rat.” 

“You have your own sick in your hair, sweetheart.” He grimaced. 

“Which you have been nuzzling, I’d point out. Besides half of fucking Darktown has heaved on your coat at some point.” That made Anders snort a soft laugh and shake his head. 

It felt so good to hear his laugh that her scowl broke at the corner of her mouth, and she looked away, flushing again. She shrugged out of his hands and this time when she collected her belt and pouches he didn’t try to stop her. He draped a blanket over her shoulders after she had slipped her shoes on. Shoes she was definitely going to burn, because yes, that was disgusting. 

They made their way to the estate in silence, with Hawke keeping just a half step too far ahead of Anders for him to steady her when she wobbled at the first landing on the stairs. He kept shooting her glances with a furrowed brow, and even though they’d broken some of the tension it wasn’t gone. No, not at all. For her part she knew she was being selfish doing this. Fuck, she might still be drunk and maudlin and weak for it. But she just didn’t want to be alone. 

She’d never wanted that, but this was the first time she’d ever thought it was for the best to get the people she cared about away from her, and maybe it still was? What the fuck was she doing hugging him and letting him absolve her? It seemed easy when she was nestled up against him, like she was safe finally. But halfway through her bath, alone in the tiled chamber, listening to the splashes echo, it was horrifying that she’d even consider it. 

She finished quickly and went to her dressing chamber to pull on clothes. Sitting on top of one of the bureaus was a small stack of laundered and mended clothes that did not belong to her. They’d been there since she’d returned and just like then she refused to look directly at them, refused to move them, touch them. They were just fucking clothes. She should throw them away, or give them to Anders. He could make bandages or something out of them. 

Which was stupid, because Hawke knew she wouldn’t. She hadn’t even been able to get rid of her mother’s things yet, and she was dead. Alistair was lost, but… fuck. She tugged on a simple dress, cinching the ties in front and grimacing. 

She found Anders in the library making notes at the desk and she stopped in the doorway before he noticed her. There was a tray with sweet rolls and cheese pies and tea on the table and he had crumbs on his chin, damp strands of hair hanging loose around his face evidence he’d had his own bath while she was changing. Damn it she wanted to climb up into his lap and bury her face against his neck and pretend he knew what the fuck he was talking about when he said it was okay, and she was okay, and Andraste’s ass, she wasn’t doing well. She reached out to steady herself on the doorjamb and that motion drew his eye. 

His eyebrows drew together in concern. “Maker, Cara, you look like you’re going to fall down.” He pushed back from the desk and moved toward her his eyes skipping all over her, searching and cataloguing, but refusing to meet her gaze. But that was a frank fucking relief because she didn’t want to deal with whatever he might see there. 

They had never been this fucking awkward around each other, not since the month after the Deep Roads after she’d shoved her tongue in his mouth and her hand down his pants and learned that whatever Anders’ type was, she wasn’t it. 

Why was she fucking thinking about that again? Because she was an idiot who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. 

He was right in front of her now, hand gently brushing her arm. “Hey, come eat something.” 

She shook her head, not disagreeing, just trying to get her thoughts back in order as he drew her over to the settee and she settled onto it. She took the tea and the pastry he handed her and she ate without tasting it, washing it down with the tepid liquid, and shook her head when he tried to press another one on her. 

“Cara, you need to eat more.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Pleasant.” 

“I--” She darted a glance at him, saw the worried pinch to his forehead while his lips quirked in a slight smile, then away toward the fireplace which was cold and empty with the summer. It would be Funalis soon, wouldn’t it? She rubbed the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose. “Maybe this is better.” 

The quirk faded, the worry becoming more pronounced. “What is?” 

“If Alistair is back with her. He loved her, you know, the first time we fucked he called me Elissa.” 

That made a strange tangle of emotions crawl all over Anders’ face, irritation and confusion, a flush in his cheeks that could be embarrassment and anger, warring with a melancholy amusement. She could hardly keep up with it. “Don’t be daft, Hawke.” 

“Why is that daft? He wanted her right up until Teagan tried to call him back, didn’t he?” She buried her face in her hands for a moment, trying to sort through this sudden thought. Why would Alistair have wanted to stay ultimately? “I was the one who just fucking told him he wasn’t going, and…” She lifted her chin to look at Anders again, his expression just flummoxed. “And if she’s the love of his life, who gives a shit why he’s being summoned back from exile? I mean, fuck, Anders. Three months ago he’s fucking a stranger against a wall in an alley and moaning for Elissa in my ear. You think that shit just goes away?” 

“It goes away if you let it go. And, Cara? He let it go, for you.” 

“How can you know that?” 

Anders’ expression was all over the place, but the way his eyes dipped, and his smile went sweet and a little sappy while he shrugged, was kind of fucking adorable. “You were gone more than a week. We talked. About you, about Elissa, about the Wardens.” 

“You talked.” 

“Yes, I just said that.” 

“About me?” 

That made Anders smile a little more, eyes soft and fond as he looked back up at her and he shook his head slowly. “Yes, about you.” 

The thought of Anders and Alistair having heartfelt conversations about her, about Alistair’s _feelings_ about her when she wasn’t even sure what those feelings were, made her cheeks redden and she frowned fiercely down at her hands. “And you both didn’t decide to run away together and forget that you ever met the fucking catastrophe that is Caralyn Hawke?” 

That made Anders choke a little. She looked up at him and he was pushing his hair back from his face with one hand, an eyebrow lifted, laughing a little breathlessly. “Trust me, love, if he and I were going to run away it wouldn’t be without you.” 

She tried to think of something to say to that, but she couldn’t tease out any of the absurd questions that sprang to mind. But they all fizzled out, visions of something so impossible it was painful pushed firmly away. She swallowed against that same strange ache in her throat and chest, and shook her head slowly. “Fucking void.” It was a mutter, more at her own stupidity, letting Anders distract her for a moment. 

“Hey, look at me, Cara.” 

She shook her head again. “No. It’s fine. I… You know, it never occurred to me with how mad you got when you learned he trained as a Templar that you would like him. Let alone that you would _like_ him.” 

There was a beat of silence and then Anders voice, rushed and a little rough as he said, “I kissed him.” 

“What?” 

“I… kissed him. Goodbye. When he was leaving, I kissed him goodbye.” 

Her eyes squinched shut tighter, face breaking for a moment at the thought that Anders kissed him goodbye. Was she angry? Was it a betrayal? Or was it just fucking agony to think that she hadn’t been the one, or worse, what if there had been no one to even tell him goodbye? “Did he kiss you back?” 

“He-- yes. Sort of. Not at first.” Anders voice was still hoarse. “Please look at me.” 

“No, I… I don’t want to look at your fucking face right now.” Was she jealous? Of which of them? That Anders liked Alistair enough to kiss him? That Alistair kissed the idiot back? That she never got to kiss Alistair one last time? The last time she’d seen him he’d been bleeding from an arrow in his lung on Varric’s table and she hadn’t even looked at him, let alone kissed him and so Anders had kissed him and fucking void. 

“He looked so lost, and it was something I wanted to do for a while. If it was my only chance...” His voice was low, wistful, with a pleading note. 

“You wanted to kiss him.” She could feel the way her magic was flickering nearer the surface, and if she didn’t get her shit back in line she was going to start sparking.

“Cara, please. I’m sorry. I would never do something like that to hurt you, it just… he looked so lost. I wanted him to know he mattered to somebody.” 

“He matters to you.” Alistair mattered to her. Fuck, Anders mattered to her. It made her want to weep that Anders had kissed him goodbye and she hadn’t been there to… kiss him too? To understand what that fucking meant, certainly. What did that mean? 

“I understand if you’re angry.” 

Her eyes flashed as they sprang open and she shouted, straight fucking shouted, “I’m not angry you kissed him, you twat!” 

“You… you aren’t angry?” The inner corners of his brows were curved upward, knitted in distress. “You sound a bit…” He trailed off and canted his head a little to the right, eyes flicking down to her hands which had started to sizzle and snap. 

Hawke shook her hands so hard her wrists popped and the lightning that had been bubbling up fizzled away. “Fuck. Cocking void, Anders, why would you tell me that? I never would have found out. You know the last time I saw him was when he was shot by Topher? I… he didn’t…” She bit down hard on her upper lip, trying to control the hot, anxious tears that were bubbling and she was so done with this fucking misery. Was that it, all she was anymore? Always, angry, upset, ill, helpless? Fuck it.

Anders looked stricken, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and the amber in them bright as he stared at her. “Maker, Cara, I’m sorry.” 

“You probably spent more time with him while I was gone than I had all together. You know that?” She was starting to pant a little. “Of course, of fucking course, you… you’re both good. So damn good. And… why not? Why wouldn’t you want him? Why wouldn’t he like you back?” 

“You need to calm down, love.” 

“No, I…” Her eyes snapped to Anders and she stood up suddenly. “You, kiss me.” 

That drew his eyebrows straight up his forehead and he stood as well, looking for all the world like he was about to flee. “What?!” 

“Kiss me, like you kissed Alistair.” 

“No!” 

No. It was that simple. Hawke recoiled from the word and then shook her head. No. Of course not. He was her best friend, and it was the worst idea, it always had been, but by the Maker’s shriveled balls she just wanted to feel that… whatever that tenderness was that Anders had glinting in his eyes when he spoke of Alistair and the kiss. But no, and she was an asshole for even asking. 

Hawke raked a hand up through her damp hair and then tried to smile, forced her mouth to move, and it _tasted_ sour, that smile, like the memory of he brandy and the bile on her tongue. “You’re right. No, you’re right. I-- sorry. Fuck. Sorry.” She turned slowly toward the door, a slight wobble in her, still lightheaded from the aftermath of poisoning herself with cheap liquor and the healing that came after. 

“Where are you going?” Anders’ voice cracked when he spoke and she froze for a moment, without looking back at him. 

“Away. To bed. I don’t fucking know, Anders. I… fuck. Maybe there’s a job? I’ll look to see if there’s anythingin the post, and then I can go do that.” That. Whatever that was. Killing seemed the safest bet. She could kill, was good at it. Saving people, helping, that was where everything turned to piss in a pot. She flinched when his hand closed on her shoulder, tensing and curving away from it even as he pulled her around. 

“Maker, you are… why would you ask me to kiss you?” There was something haunted in his eyes when she dared a glance at them and the laugh that slipped from her was a harsh bark. 

“Are you serious?” 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.” 

She rolled her shoulder, trying to shake off his hand, and it slide down her arm to settle just above her elbow, but he didn’t let go. “You’re maybe the only person in this whole fucking world I trust completely, Anders, and I… it hurts. I _hurt_ and I don’t know what to do. Drinking myself stupid hurts you, and I can’t just curl up and wish it away, I want to but it won’t go and I’m just so fucking empty, and you…” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “You said you wanted to show Alistair that he mattered to someone. I… I just thought feeling that… that would be something else, something better than this fucking void.” Her free arm brought her hand to her middle, balling into a fist and pushing it against her stomach, just under her ribs. 

“Cara…”

“And before you tell me that I didn’t know him well, or long enough to feel this way just because Alistair is gone, it isn’t about him. It’s every cocked up thing in this word, that I just keep failing at, and then there’s you, and you’ve always been there to catch me, and fuck you for not…” She tried to pull her arm away, tried to retreat, because she was far too close to explaining that she still felt regret over their abortive liaison in the Deep Roads, and not listening to him about Fenris, and every other thing that was likely to go skipping through her head. 

His voice was almost painfully smooth suddenly. His clinician’s voice, the one he used on hysterical patients and the dying. “You’re upset, and ill, and you need to rest.” His hand was still on her arm and she jerked this time and then stumbled as she put another step between them. 

“Don’t fucking do that!” She jabbed a finger toward him, but they were standing too far apart for it to land, just hanging in the air like the most useless weapon in the world, her accusing, angry, idiot finger. “Don’t you pretend that if you ignore me it stops. It doesn’t stop!” 

She watched him struggle to keep his expression smooth, but there was something burning in his eyes that she couldn’t identify, and she met his gaze with her chin lifted and her jaw set. 

“Well? You going to try to mother me some more, Anders?” She was seriously considering punching him in the mouth if he did. She didn’t need Anders the Healer. She needed… something, anything else. Something to fight, or… well. 

She watched him wet his lips twice He threw his hands in the air and then stalked towards her, batting her finger aside. “Fine, you think this will help, let’s see if it bloody well helps, Cara.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and then he fucking kissed her. 

The shock of it was profound and she just stood there for a moment, lips parted in surprise, because as much as she asked him to do it, it didn’t make sense. Hawke only made sense about half the time, period, and today… today she was running well below her average she rather suspected. But now Anders was kissing her. 

His mouth was soft, warm, tasted of tea and there was sugar on his lips from the pastry he’d eaten while she was bathing. His tongue slipped against the curve of her upper lip once, teasing, then a second time more firmly before he angled his head to deepen it and shit if he’d kissed Alistair like this she was fucking lucky they hadn’t run away without her. It wasn’t as searing as the way Alistair kissed her, not as convinced that nothing existed outside their mouths when they met, instead teasing and tempting and when she began kissing him back she heard Anders groan softly in the back of his throat, and that didn’t sound like someone who didn’t want to be kissing. 

Her arm slid up over his shoulder and her fingers scraped along his scalp into his hair and he shuddered and arched his neck and suddenly pulled his mouth away from hers. She stared at him, not comprehending for a moment, and then the blush that flooded her cheeks was painfully hot. “Shit.” 

His eyes were wide, pupils black and blown open, lips parted and damp. He wasn’t looking at her, gaze unfocused and suddenly he shook his head hard and dropped his hands from her face. “I… I’ll go.” When he brushed past her toward the door she blinked after him, and then he was gone, scuttling away as fast as he could and she stared after him. 

Her fingers came up and pressed against her lips and she swallowed the sob or the retch that seemed about to bubble up. Fuck. She… fucking void. What had she called herself? A fucking catastrophe? Hawke was pretty sure that given the circumstances that assessment stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: I think this chapter got a bit away from me. I hope it wasn't too tedious getting all the Caralyn emotion dump at once. 
> 
> Second: I am so sorry I never replied to comments on the last chapter. Everyone's feedback about Elissa and Alistair was glorious, overwhelmingly so, and by the time I had processed it, it felt awkwardly late to respond to comments individually. Love you all, darlings. Thank you for reading.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things escalate for Anders and Hawke. Anders has an unsurprising number of feelings. Which is to say a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders POV chapter! Was real weird writing a full chapter with Caralyn in it that was not from her POV.

The world was ending.

Plainly. These were undeniably the end times. Anders had somehow missed the return of the Maker, or the rise of Arlathan, or any of the other signs that the world was over, right up until he found his tongue in Caralyn Hawke’s mouth. 

He’d kissed Hawke. He’d kissed her because she’d _asked_ him to, and even though he’d known it wasn’t about him, or them, he’d done it to get her to stop looking at him with those panicked, hollow eyes. And it had gone from a kiss, to a _kiss_ and now… what now? 

This was the turbulent cycle of this thoughts for the last twelve hours. Once he’d fled from Cara like a coward, he’d wandered Kirkwall for several hours because the clinic had felt like a trap, and her damn clothes were still in the bloody washtub. 

There was always the vague possibility that she might show up and demand answers, though it seemed unlikely given how emphatically she had been avoiding him. But if she did want answers neither he, nor Justice, seemed to have them. 

They’d been so careful for so long, keeping her at a painfully proximate distance, close enough to touch, but too far to _have_ , because it was best for her, safest, and now? Now all those desires, squashed needs and wants and mad, vain hopes for a future that couldn’t possibly happen? All those were spiraling up from the deepest parts of him and it… well it bloody well itched. 

He’d lit the lantern for a few hours when he returned to the clinic, but there had been few in need this day, and now with the latch thrown and the lights out he collapsed onto a cot, staring at the ceiling. “Andraste’s paisley panties, what in the void am I doing?” 

Justice was a disgruntled flutter and no help. The spirit was… attached to Cara, viewed her as a powerful ally, and would have wound her tighter into the inner workings of the mage underground if Anders had let him. He could never let those thoughts happen without the sudden guilt that if he had let her help more, Meredith would be dead already… or Hawke would be have been made an empty automaton like Karl. 

It was that image, Cara robbed of her soul, her blood spilling over his hands that had convinced Justice it was better this way… and in return Justice had insisted that his desire to be closer to her, to be with her in all ways, was just as dangerous. 

So where in the void had that kiss come from? Well, aside from the place inside him that had wanted to kiss her that way ever since the Deep Roads, when he’d let Justice’s fretting and his own self-loathing deter him from returning her attention. Affection? Her interest had been fleeting, born of context, lost in the dark, wanting something warm to hold onto, not about him. 

And that hadn’t changed all that much, had it? 

It made him feel a little ill that he had taken it as far as he had. She had asked for the kiss, a way to be closer to the man she lost, the man that Anders could see she clearly loved, or would if she let herself, and instead of letting it stay that simple, that comfort and closeness, for just a minute, he had taken it for himself. And she had melted under his mouth like she belonged there. 

In that, the kiss was very like the one he gave Alistair, at least. Anders shook his head sharply. That wasn’t helping. Not at all. 

There was a hesitant rap on the door of the clinic. He lifted his head, eyes narrowing at the gloomy entranceway. He waited in silence. If it was an emergency illness or injury someone would knock harder, call out. Just as he dropped his head back onto his pillow he heard her, voice tiny, as if she didn’t even want to be heard. 

“Anders?” There was another soft tap, just the tips of her fingers. “I… I came to apologize. If you’re in there, I mean. I didn’t mean to… shit. Fucking void.” That sounded a little more like her at least. “You aren’t in there, are you? I’m talking to a fucking door. Which is about as sane as anything else I could be doing.” There was a thump and then a rustling noise, and her voice was coming from a different angle. “I’ll wait. I… I have to fucking apologize or this is never going to…” There was a ragged exhale, long and torn. She was sitting on the doorstep to the clinic, crying, waiting to apologize to him? 

The silence stretched. Anders wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved she didn’t keep talking. Eavesdropping probably wasn’t the best way to deal with whatever she wanted to say. Maker, what did she want to say? Why did she think she needed to apologize? He was the one who’d… taken advantage? He rubbed both his hands over his face and then sat. No use hiding in here. 

He padded to the door and drew the bolt and eased it open. He stared at her scrambling to her feet, eyes wide and reddened, hair coming loose in crazed strands from a messy knot on the top of her head. “Cara, hello--” 

“Fuck you, you fucking cocknose!” She was suddenly in the doorway, and shoved him with both hands on his chest so hard he stumbled back against a work table. She kicked the door shut and stalked towards him.

“You always offer the most eloquent apologies.” He fended off another attempt to push him, gripping her wrists tightly and tucking her hands in against his chest. Any other time it wouldn’t have been awkward, just him pulling her in close and muffling some of the anger that was spilling over. Now though? Now her face was too close to his and he swallowed, forcing the urge to repeat the action that had caused this mess back down into the pit of his stomach. 

“I was so fucking worried, you ass!” There were tears in her eyes, and she ducked her head as they started to fall. . 

It was a calculated risk, letting go of her wrist so that he could brush the tears from her face, but he wanted to touch her skin, where it was soft and over-heated and a little raw from where she’d been rubbing earlier tears away. He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, half expecting to get pushed or poked away. He never minded the aggressive excesses of the way Cara’s hands found him. “It’s fine, see? I’m here.” 

Her face raised enough that he could see the deep blue of her eyes behind the lashes matted black and Anders froze. It wasn’t the first time in his life that she’d snared him like that, Maker grant it wouldn’t be the last, even if it wasn’t right to want to kiss away the tears he’d caused. “You fucking left me standing there like dogshit on the rug, Anders. I thought you were _leaving_.” The ragged edge was back in her voice, and she turned her face into his hand. “You can’t. I won’t ever, not ever again, but you are not fucking going to just go like that.” 

The weight and curve of her cheek in his palm made him feel like the skin there was the only place on his body that had feeling for the moment. He swallowed twice, hard, and forced his thumb not to brush her lip. No, that wasn’t going to fix this. “What… I wasn’t leaving you, sweetheart. What do you mean you ‘won’t ever again’?” 

Her eyes slide shut and she jerked back from his touch suddenly. “Kiss you like… like that. I know you aren’t…” She flapped a hand vaguely between them. “You don’t… you know. Me.” 

The absurdity of how flustered she was… well it was bloody absurd. And oddly familiar. Anders coughed a little laugh, before smoothing his hand over his mouth when she glared up at him. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Cara…” The tuck to her chin was fast approaching petulance, and while it was adorable in the early stages it could become hazardous to the structural integrity of whole buildings if petulance burst into rage. 

“I made you kiss me and you don’t feel that way about me. It was awful. I am fucking awful.” 

He blinked several times at her, feeling his ears heat. Well, yes, he felt that way about her and didn’t she… know? But the first words that came out were, “Are you registering a complaint about the technique or the selection of partner?” 

She gaped at him for a moment. “You are such a monster!” The way her eyes flashed, no longer leaking tears, but still so raw looking, made his chest ache. 

“I’m the monster?” He could feel his eyebrow climbing, one corner of his mouth following. He should go find a mirror, they could compare their monstrousness. Her in a rage worthy of an over-tired toddler, and him… well he was a smirking abomination, wasn’t he? 

“Can you just be fucking serious about this!” Her hands were shaking as she held them up, not bunched into fists, but palms raised, fingers spread. He stared at them. Not threatening. Pleading. “Please, Anders.” 

The pleading nearly did him in. He wanted to reach for her, pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair like he had that morning. And now her hair would be decidedly less disgusting, the whole thing rather more enjoyable, except something had shifted between them and he couldn’t trust himself to hold her without being what amounted to a lecherous swine. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Justice hadn’t gone completely silent then. “I’m sorry. Please, just take a breath and explain it to me?” He was serious, more than serious, but the things she hinted at didn’t seem possible. If they were possible they certainly weren’t allowed. 

She huffed out a rushed sigh and then closed her eyes. Maker, she seemed so young when she did that. “I just wanted to feel something easy, Anders. Something good. Everything is so fucking impossible right now. And you… everything else makes no fucking sense, but you make sense, and it’s been years, but that’s never gone away. And it wasn’t fucking fair that I would ask you for that when you don’t feel those things for me that way, not on top of you obviously hurting because Alistair’s gone, and I miss him, and Andraste’s asscrack, could I be worse? Could I be fucking worse?” 

And she called him an idiot. He stepped closer to her, rested his hands on her shoulders, steadying. “You think I don’t want to kiss you?” 

“No! Why the fuck would you?” 

That closed his mouth with a snap. No, obviously, why would he? He’d only been in bloody love with her for four bloody years and watched her drift away after the Deep Roads because he couldn’t hurt her, not like he knew he would, and then watched her twist and pine and waste her love for the elf that couldn’t return it. And then the man he might have approved of? Felt reasonably assured that stepping back for wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he could do, had turned out to be unreasonably attractive, worthy of affection, and charmed him as well to the point he may have had extensive dreams about all three of them naked in the giant bathtub in her estate, but Justice kept those fuzzy and out of reach, and it was more of a suspicion than a memory. “Knickerweasels, Hawke.” She flinched. “Cara, sweetheart, Cara. I’m sorry. Look at me.” 

She did, eyes open and naked, and so, so raw. Fearful. “I’m sorry.” It was a whisper, just a breath from her lips. 

He was trying to meet her gaze, but it was so much responsibility. Before Kirkwall, before Justice, the belief in those eyes that he would catch her no matter what would have sent him fleeing in panic. Now he just worried until the inside of his stomach burned that it was trust misplaced in the worst way. 

Her brows furrowed and she chewed on her top lip for a moment. 

“This morning…” He shook his head, dropping his eyes, and her fingers were there almost immediately brushing hair off his forehead with one hand, lifting his chin with the other. His smile was crooked as he looked down at her. “I don’t know how to explain what it felt like to kiss you.” 

“Boring? Repulsive? A terrible betrayal of all the trust you’ve placed in me not to go shoving my fucking hands in your pants like some kind of mad Chasind witch who wants to have your babies and then feed you to fucking wild dogs?” Her lips were trembling and he leaned down very, very slowly to press a light kiss over them. 

It is chaste, just a brush of lips, but it stopped the tumble of words. Her eyes went wide and wary, and she looked like she’ll bolt at any moment. The hands she’d had on his face dropped, knotting into the cloth of his tunic. One hand seemed to want to push him away, the other pull him closer. Was it good she hadn’t decided yet? 

He wanted to smile against her lips, tell her everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Was it? Justice was a swirling knot of confusion and indignance. There was no way it didn’t result in him losing her. But did he get to keep her if he remained bound to Justice’s proscriptions and his noble intentions? Or would she just fall away from herself, further and further, until she was bitter, poisoned to the world, and unreachable? Did he care if this wasn’t about him at all, but was about safety and a warm body, and the absence of someone she truly wanted? 

Was he betraying her trust, maybe Alistair’s trust as well, by parting his lips and kissing her again? It was soft and gentle, too lingering to be chaste, but only by a small degree. 

She leaned back at when that kiss ended, eyebrows trying to climb off her face. “What the fuck is happening?” 

“I’ve tried to hold back, for years, Cara. I’ve…” He swallowed, biting his tongue for a moment and then shook his head hard. The angry buzz that had welled up, Justice insisting this was wrong, this was dangerous and unforgivable, so loud it hurt. He pushed back. If this was what she needed to not crumble into dust while they watched? He wanted to do everything for her, everything he could. Even love her while she loved someone else. 

Her eyes narrowed, flicking over his face, studying him with a suspicion that was almost funny. “Shit.” 

He arched an eyebrow at her, started to straighten, and in a moment that was so purely Cara, waiting for him to be the one in retreat, she launched herself at him. Her arms twined around his neck as she went up on her tiptoes, and crushed her mouth against his.

The initial pressure was almost painful it was so aggressive. Cara, lips soft and full but still chapped rough in some places, daring him to push her away. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to pull her back. But he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted her here, against him and he wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer, and kissed her back, just as hard, just as desperate. 

She sucked on his lower lip and moaned against his mouth and any regrets or hesitations that Anders still had were swept away in that one soft, full-throated noise that came from tasting him. Him? How could Hawke be making that noise for him? 

There were a thousand tiny details that all seemed to clamor for attention. The metallic thread in the cloth of her robe that snagged on the sleeves of his shirt. How he could feel one of her hands gripping his shoulder so hard he might have welts, while the other was only ghosting through the hair at his nape. She smelled of the herbs that Orana used in her laundry sachets, verbena and Andraste’s grace which never brought back memories of the lavender and rosemary they used in the Circle. Her eyelashes would dip for a moment, still damp and spiky from tears, but then they’d flash open again as if she expected him to disappear. 

Before long she was nipping his bottom lip and then soothing it with her tongue before lapses into kisses so full and open-mouthed he was lost. He wanted. Maker, he wanted, but he wasn’t sure what to take. What she was offering. His hands stayed on her back, her breasts pressed against his chest, and he tipped his head so that his forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling. “Cara…” 

“If you tell me this isn’t a good idea I will end you right fucking now, Anders.” She twitched towards him where his cock, hard and getting harder, pressed against her stomach and his breath caught in his throat. He kissed her nose, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “It might be the worst cocked up idea, but you’re here with me, and I… fuck.” She turned her face away from him, hiding it against his shoulder. “Please, just don’t say it’s a fucking mistake.” 

This was the opening that Justice needed to assert his feelings on the matter, and Anders felt the heady breathlessness fade a little in the face of the angry shifting at the base of his skull. The spirit certainly thought it was a mistake. Anders… Anders did not. 

It was a terrible idea, but that didn’t make it a mistake. He’d had many terrible ideas in his life, every one of his Circle escapes for example, but they weren’t mistakes. He didn’t regret them, regardless of how painful the aftermath was. 

He turned his face into her neck, gently nipping just under the curve of her jaw and smirking as she shivered and whimpered. “You could never be a mistake, Cara. Not for me.” He kissed down the line of her neck to where the edge of her collarbone was visible under the robe. He scraped his teeth there, and Maker, it had been a long bloody time since he’d done this. Tender, patient. Was he seducing her? It wasn’t a game, that was certain. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt anything so real in his life. It wasn’t like the reckless whimsy that brought him to Karl’s bedside in the middle of the night. This felt like if he stopped he would drown. 

“You never w-wanted to before.” 

He snorted softly against her skin and then moved his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat, nudging her head back just under her chin with the bridge of his nose. He shouldn’t be tasting the salt of her skin while they are having this discussion, it should be serious and thoughtful and not overshadowed with the fact he was caught between the clamor of Justice and the complete rebellion of his own body and heart. “I always wanted you, sweetheart.” 

“Deep Roads.” 

“That’s an adventurous request for our first time.” He paused, laughing softly when one of her hands tugged irritably on his ponytail, punitive, warning, like she always did and he loved. Loved every time she touched him. He was smirking as he lifted his face from her throat and met her eyes, one eyebrow raised. 

“You didn’t want to fuck me in the Deep Roads.” 

“I didn’t want to fuck you _in the Deep Roads_. And… Justice didn’t… doesn’t approve of…” He sighed, looking away from her scowl, the way she was peering at him with suspicion and wariness. Already convinced he was winding up to hurt her? Her full, flushed lips, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, welted where she’d rubbed her face too hard to rid herself of tears, hair a ridiculous nest of knots tied up and forgotten, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “But, I’m… here now.” He was prevaricating out loud. How could he tell her he loved her? That after coming so close to losing her over and over and over again the past months, he couldn’t tell himself no anymore? He couldn’t turn away. Wouldn’t, and didn’t want to. 

Her hands were tight in his hair, shifting his face so that she could stare up at him, hold him exactly the right distance away so that she could glare and peer and inspect, meet his eyes and then study his mouth. Her eyes narrowed and lips pursed slightly, as if she was searching for something. “Justice and I aren’t going to have a problem about this, are we?” That wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but Hawke had always treated the spirit like a friend, or at least an acquaintance separate from himself… which was a little odd and uncomfortable, but Anders suspected it factored into Justice’s general approval of her. 

There was a sudden truculent shift and then a withdrawing, as if Justice, faced with Cara’s glower had decided he couldn’t win this fight at all. Maybe didn’t want to either? Anders shivered at the sensation of being more… more. Himself. Responses unfiltered, unmediated by the spirit’s judgement. He swallowed hard and shook his head as much as her fingers holding his hair would let him. “No. Apparently there will be no further arguments from him.” 

“And from you?” 

“I--” There weren’t really words for this that Anders could find. It was a foreign sensation, not having a quip, flippant or wry, some kind of nonsense that would dribble off his tongue. But the tongue was still good for something. He pulled her closer again, leaned down against the pull in his hair, and kissed her. 

It started slow and sweet, but by the time she’d started pulling him toward her by the hair instead of trying to hold him away, it was teeth and panting gasps and one of his hands sliding down to cup the curve of her ass which startled them both enough that they knocked their noses together. He drew a breath to make a joke about how he used to be better at this but her lips were there again, silencing him. Her hands left his hair and were suddenly tugging at the laces of his breeches, and every line of her body seemed driven, desperate. 

Her hands were so warm, fingers strong and callused from her staff, as they slipped down into his smallclothes and wrapped around his erection, squeezing as she pushed her tongue further into his mouth. Frantic. She let go of him and pushed his trousers down his hips. She was bending, her lips ghosting over the head of his cock as she raised the bottom of her robes to tug her own smallclothes down. He started to protest but her tongue, her wicked, warm tongue was licking the slit and his head dropped back with a groan, killing any words. 

She sucked the tip into her mouth, swirling her tongue against the edge of his foreskin, before pulling off. She straightened, turning away in the same motion and suddenly she was bent over the table next to him, robes pulled up to her waist, ass bare, legs trembling and pale. Her head hung over her forearms on the table and her eyes were closed. He stared at her. 

This wasn’t the way he’d imagined it. He flushed head full of all his romantic maunderings: the canopy of her bed full of magelight stars and slow undressings, followed by kissing every inch of her skin. Was this a fling? This one quick fuck and that was it? He felt cold suddenly and tucked his cock, now half-hard, back into his pants. 

He glanced at her, saw her stricken eyes staring at him. “No… shh.” He pulled her robes down over her hips and then leaned against her, over her, lips against her ear. He nuzzled into it, sucked the lobe and then whispered, “I want to take you to bed, love.” 

Her nod was a quick jerk as air rushed out of her lungs. She leaned into his face where he continued to nibble and he didn’t say anything when he saw tears hit the surface of the table between her hands. He kissed the side of her neck one last time and then pulled away, hand tugging her up with him. 

“Come upstairs with me?” 

She turned her head to look up at him, and she was blushing. She’d been bent over the table, offering her ass to him like… like it meant little enough beyond getting his cock inside her, and now? Now the sweet curve of her lips and the blush in her cheeks and she laughed. “Well, it’s where we fucking live, isn’t it?” 

Anders knew his smile was likely ridiculous as he looked down at her, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.” 

Her smile flickered, eyes filling with something… too much something for him to identify. “I--” She caught her upper lip between her teeth, biting the chapped skin there and he dipped to place a kiss over it. Her smile returned, and she glanced down. “Yes. Upstairs.” She shrugged out of his encircling arms and grabbed his hand, lacing her fingers tight through his, and dragged him toward the door. 

His feet were clumsy, heavy, the weight of what was happening, what he’d angled for settling in his bones. Not a quick fuck. He wanted no end of things with this woman.

And her? He raised her hand to his mouth as they crossed the Darktown lane to the cellar stairs and kissed her knuckles. He couldn't ask, didn't want to make her reflect, but whatever she wanted, he would give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to throw shoes about the smut cliffhanger, I accept that. Next chapter, I promise. Realized I needed Hawke's feelings to round this development out. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting and being generally awesome. :)


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Anders finally make it into bed together. It's a bit crowded between the two of them and all her fucking feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders/Caralyn smut ahoy. It's got a bit of a wave structure, some ups and downs. I hope it came out alright. It has been... roughly 50k words since there's been smut in this story. *facepalm* There will probably be two more Kirkwall chapters and one with Alistair and the Wardens before things come back together. Thanks for sticking with me guys. :)

Hawke’s hands were shaking. She was holding so tightly to Anders with one that she hoped he couldn’t feel it. The free one was trembling and flitting from the back of her neck, to smoothing the front of her robes, back up to push hair off her forehead and then to pull on her earlobe. If she let it fall to her side she’d be able to feel the way it quaked. 

She was fucking terrified. 

Not of Anders. She shot a glance up at him, caught him smiling at her from the corner of his eye and Maker’s cock she wanted to suck his lower lip into her mouth again. She felt her cheeks flush redder and quickened her pace through the basement of her house, up the stairs because if she walked slower, gave herself more time to think she was going to properly panic. 

She was going to fuck this up. 

There was no way she wouldn’t. She was sure she had when she’d pulled her robes up and bent over, ready to accept a quick, thoughtless tumble, and when his hands had pulled her clothes back down she had thought for a minute she would vomit from how disappointed he must be in her. But this was just… it was just a thing they were doing? She didn’t know. She felt feverish as they crossed the great room and angled toward the stairs. 

She didn’t know what she thought she was doing. Shit.

When they reached the top of the stairs she froze. Her room? His? There were too many variables, too many choices, and he was her best friend and they had decided they were going to… what? Fuck, yes, but maybe not? Because if Anders just wanted to fuck her he could have in the clinic and it wouldn’t have been at home, in _their_ home, and… His hands closed over her shoulders and he pulled her back against his chest, leaning down to press his face against her neck, gently so that his stubble didn’t scrape sharply, just a pleasant rasp and her eyes closed and she melted. 

The comparisons bubbled up as he gently herded her toward her bedroom, and she wasn’t able to separate the shards of desire in her belly from the twist of guilt that she was doing this with him, now, unable to banish Alistair entirely from her thoughts. Why now? Why was he willing now? Why was she letting herself take what he was offering? Only because it was an alternative to the misery that she had been choking on the past weeks? Outside her room Anders paused and turned her, pressing her back against the door gently, one hand running up her throat to her chin and lifting her face. 

“We don’t have to.” His voice was low, hoarse, and she could tell what those words cost him It was a good thing she could hear it, otherwise she would have assumed he’d changed his mind. But no, whatever madness had led him to her bedroom door, it was still in effect. 

He was such a good man. She felt her throat tightening, eyes stinging again, and for the love of all fucks, why did she have so many tears trying to get out? She reached up to grab the front of his shirt and tugged him down to bring his mouth against hers. She couldn’t find the words, didn’t want to ruin this now. She was almost guaranteed to ruin it later, but she’d leave later for later, and right now was the scrape of his stubble on her skin, his warm, soft lips on hers, the soft pressure of his tongue in her mouth. When she finally broke the kiss she was breathless, and she pressed her forehead against the flutter of his pulse in his throat, felt him swallow several times. 

“Cara?” It wasn’t going to be thoughtless. His hands, running down her arms and back up were too tender. The request in his voice, asking her for permission again and again, because he didn’t think she’d want to? Or that he was worthy?

“Yes.” She turned her face so that she close her mouth over his pulse, running her tongue there, tasting his sweat and enjoying the drag of his stubble on her lips. “Fucking, yes, okay? Just yes.” 

She reached behind her, unlatched the door, and stumbled a few steps backwards into the room when the support of the door fell away. Hawke didn’t want to think about how soft and open his face was, how… wondering. She reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him past her before turning back to the door and pushing it closed and locking it.

She paused then, in the dark. Too dark. She hadn’t been in this room at night in nearly two weeks and she shuddered, fingers closing hard on the handle and her other hand scrabbling for the bolt that she had just thrown. She couldn’t find it. Why couldn’t she fucking find it? It was right there! 

The hand that brushed her shoulder made her freeze and she wanted to shrink, to fall away, to run. “Open your eyes, Cara.” Anders’ voice was a careful whisper, one of the only voices in the world she trusted completely. His, Alistair’s, maybe Varric’s. She trusted her brother to always be an ass. She didn’t want to be thinking of any of them. She did as he told her, opened her eyes that she hadn’t meant to close, and saw it was no longer dark. The gentle pulse of his magic was in the air, knitting into small wisps, dancing lights that hovered near the ceiling. “Better?” 

She turned toward him, met his searching eyes and nodded. “Yes. Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart, you never have to apologize for that. I understand.” His fingers curled against her cheek, knuckles brushing gently against the new tears. And he did understand. Of course he did. He’d been kept in the dark, alone, for a lot fucking longer than a week. 

The thought of having undergone that kind of isolation for a _year_ brought a fresh burst of panic to her chest and Hawke lunged up to wrap her arms around his neck and press a new kiss against his mouth. He was here, real, holding her and he had come for her and he and Alistair hadn’t let anything else happen. So many things could have happened but they had come to bring her home. And only one of them had come home with her. Because of her. What if Elissa had wanted them both? 

Fucking void, she almost wished for that. A world where they had each other, instead of Alistair alone and Anders stuck with her. 

She was near tears again, but she didn’t care, tongue fierce, mouth wild as Hawke pushed him back toward the bed. One of his hands traced her neck as he let her steer him now, the callused pads of his fingers grounding her. She pulled away when they reached the bed and she began to undo the buttons at the top of her robe. The way his eyes watched her as she unfastened them and then pulled the heavy garment up over her head and tossed it to the side made her skin heat. It was like there was too much of her to see, and he didn’t dare blink. She dropped her chin as she took down her hair and let it fall loose around her face as she toed off her shoes. 

The brush of his fingers on her bare shoulder drew her gaze. He watched her face as he reached behind her to unfasten her breastband and then she was naked, standing in front of Anders. His eyes didn’t stay just on her face as he looked at her. After a minute of silence in which he just stood there, the undergarment dangling and forgotten in his hand, she shifted and frowned at him, hands skimming over her belly and up to the bottoms of her breasts, before she crossed her arms. “You’re going to faint if you don’t breathe.” 

He startled at the sound of her voice, and then looked up to her face, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth and he shook his head. “I’m breathing. Struggling really. Not to pant with my tongue out.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. 

She rolled hers. “Sure. You seem profoundly overwhelmed.” She watched him from beneath the fall of her hair as his eyebrows rose and he reached out a hand that was visibly shaking, and brushed her fringe back. 

“Cara, love. You… you are unmaking me just by standing there. I don’t want to… waste any of this opportunity.” His fingers slipped behind her ear and cupped her head while his other hand slipped to the small of her back and drew her close to him. 

She could feel how hard he was through his trousers he still wore as he pressed her against his front. She shifted, rubbing against him in a slow arch, feeling her nipples grow hard as they scraped against the rough linen of his shirt. This close she could feel the heat off of him and the way he was trembling all over. She lifted her face and he bent immediately to kiss her, this time with an urgency she hadn’t felt before, a rawness and hunger, like he was letting it out of some place he’d kept it held tightly under control. 

Hawke begin pulling at his clothes, opening his trousers and pushing up at his shirt, but there wasn’t room enough between their bodies to get rid of them. Still, she managed to get his shirt high enough that she could press her skin to his, and she gasped into his mouth. He groaned softly and let her go long enough to pull his shirt off and toss it aside, and while he pushed his pants down she crawled up onto the bed. 

The sudden scrape of his teeth against curve of her ass shocked her, and she flinched as his hands closed on her hips, holding her on her hands and knees. She glanced back and saw him leaning down onto the bed, his trousers pushed to his knees, and he met her gaze just before he lowered his face to kiss her at the tender spot just at the top of her thigh. His fingers were prickling, slowly warming, a fluttering tingling sensation that she could track in her skin and deeper, her own magic reacting. When he shifted to top of her other thigh, and then rubbed his cheek gently on the the curve above it, she whimpered and small crackles of energy bloomed where he touched her. 

She swallowed hard several times, the dance of lightning on her skin reminding her of the last time she was with Alistair, and it felt... truthful to feel it and think of him as well as Anders. She bit her lip as he slowly slid up to cover her bowed body with his own, the hot length of his cock nesting against her labia, skin dragging pleasantly against the moist curls. 

“You’re so bloody beautiful.” His voice was hoarse as he traced his fingers up and down her back, kissed her shoulders, and she let the sparks that he raised chase and dance after the contact with his skin. “So, so precious.” 

She arched as his hand dipped down around her waist and curled in to tease her open and flick his finger against her clit. The sudden, searing pleasure of the sizzle of his magic drawing hers made her gasp and curl and she was right fucking _there_ suddenly, balanced on the edge of orgasm, a sobbed breath rushing from her lungs. 

“Shh.” His mouth was on the back of her neck, teeth gently nipping. “You’re close already?” 

“Fuck, Anders, I…” She felt like apologizing, or hiding her face, embarrassed at her lack of control, her desperation. But between the magic and the warmth and the relief to feel anything good, and it was Anders, who she just fucking trusted. “Please.” 

“Mmm.” The warm sound of his agreeing hum was close to her ear and he rolled to her side and finished kicking off his trousers. He reached for her and pulled her up and onto him. She went willingly, settling to straddle his waist and lean down to kiss him. His hands pressed up under her breasts, thumbs on her nipples and when the tingling of his magic sparked against them she shuddered and ground back and down, sliding until she had his cock pinned beneath her. He was quiet, watching her with wide eyes, his breath coming quick and hard and when she shifted, canting her hips so that he could feel the wet heat slide against his erection he whimpered. But he wouldn’t look away from her. 

“What do you want, Anders?” 

“You. Maker, Cara. You.” His hands slipped down her hips, pulling her harder against him. “Everything. Anything. Whatever you want.”

Hawke fell forward to brace her hands on his shoulders. His skin was impossibly pale, looking almost ghostly in the magelights and there were scars old and newer, the difference between a silvery line and a pink seam. She placed a soft kiss in the center of his chest, nuzzling into the fine thatch of reddish-gold hair. “I want you.” 

She lifted her face and he caught her in a kiss that never seemed to end. It just wandered. First her lips for long, languid pulls and then as she broke so that she could shift, guiding him with a hand beneath her, his mouth was on her breasts, one then the other. When she finally sank down on him. he groaned against her throat. Once his cock was seated deep and hard inside her he sought her mouth again, holding her still with an arm around her waist. 

The kiss went on, and she ached to move, wanted to ride him until he cried out for her, but when she twitched he tightened his grip. Instead she clenched inside, a rolling flutter of her muscles that seemed to map ever rigid inch of his cock. He groaned against her tongue and broke the kiss. “You’re going to kill me.” His face was turned into her neck, hidden by her hair. “Please, just, it has been so damn long. I need…” She growled softly and tightened around him again and this groan was ragged and harsh. 

The next several minutes were an odd struggle for control. Hawke twitching and clutching and bearing down on him while he tried to keep some tether on her movements and she didn’t understand why. The tension was torturous and exquisite. She knew about Wardens, she knew that if he spent in a sudden rush now, before too very long he could be ready to fuck her senseless for another hour. Why was he trying so hard to hold off? He’d already nearly undone her twice with just the barest brush of his fingers and lips, the surge of his magic. 

She threaded her hands into his hair and pulled back so that he had to look up at her. His eyes were wild, nearly pleading. ‘Please, love, I don’t want this to end yet.” 

“Do you think you come once and it’s over?” She had gone still, studying his face. His eyes told her the answer and she dropped her head to press her forehead against his, beginning to tremble. “If that’s all you want, I…” 

“What? No! Knickerweasels! I… I want you. Always. But that isn’t what this is, is it? One bad day and it’s love undying? I’m not fooling myself. If he were still here, you wouldn’t be. Or, you would, but I wouldn’t.” He fell back against the pillows, and she looked at him, rolling her hips slowly once to see… and yes he was softening inside her. “I won’t make you lie to me about what this means.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Love--” He winced as her fingertips dug into his shoulders, nails biting. 

“No, fuck you, Anders!” She scraped her nails down his chest, leaving red welts, careful not to really hurt him. She pinched his nipples, little sparks skittering from her fingertips. He gasped and bucked under her. “I’m here now. You’re here, and this is… I don’t know, but I’m not just fucking using you. I’m not going to wake up in the middle of the night and announce this was a mistake and walk away.” She turned her face away from him and he caught her jaw pulling her back. 

His eyes were strange as they stared at her, searching, hoping for something and she glared at him. Fucking ass. It was all so fucking complicated and stupid, the worst idea, hadn’t she kept telling herself that for years? And now here she was, naked on top of him, his cock growing harder again inside her, and her trying not to cry at him. Of all the idiocy. Did she wish Alistair were here? Yes. She would give almost anything for that. But as his thumbs traced the line of her jaw she wasn’t sure if this was one of those things. 

Was she worse for wanting Alistair while she was with Anders, or being unsure if she could push Anders away if Alistair were present? She bit the inside of her lip hard enough to taste blood, pushing those thoughts away. What had she just said to him? It didn't matter, they were here, and that was all there was to it.

She pressed her hands to either side of his face, kissed him as hard, as long, as fiercely as she could, rolling her hips, trying not to let him slip from her, grinding on him. He slowly started thrusting up to meet her, hands returning to her hips, but instead of stopping her he was pulling her harder down, shifting her angle here and there. 

Hawke was close, very close, and he was panting, open mouthed as she nipped at his lips, lapped her tongue into the corner of his mouth, scraped her teeth over his jaw. When he half-sobbed her name she let go, her lightning crackling over her skin, a humming warmth that felt like… well it felt like everything. 

She’d never _let_ it ripple forth like that, not during sex, not on purpose. But Anders had started it with his tingling hands and it felt right, even as she wished she’d had the chance with Alistair. Just showing him that day at the Bone Pit had meant something special… Fucking void, there were tears in her eyes as Anders almost screamed as he came, hot and arching, clutching at her as she spasmed and ground against him. 

When she let the magic recede she settled onto his chest, combing her fingers into his hair and whispered through tears, “I’m not letting you go, you utter shit.” She heard the breath hitch in his chest and he rolled her to the side, curling around her and kissing the tears off her cheeks, patient, slow, soothing. When she finally quieted he kissed her forehead. 

“And I’ll stay as long as you need me.” 

She laughed then. “I’m a fucking disaster. You won’t ever get to leave.” 

He smirked, shaking his head slowly. “I am surprisingly fine with that. For someone who was always running, I feel like… well…” 

“Maybe this was where you were always running to?” 

She watched him swallow, close his eyes for a moment, and then blink back tears that he wouldn’t let fall. “Something like that, love. Something very like that.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair has a couple of conversations and realizes some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this has taken me so long. This has been by far the longest break between chapters, and I did not intend it to get away from me like that. That being said, I hope you enjoy a little Elissa and Alistair, and I hope that his developing understanding of the situation he finds himself in works. Things will start coming back together soon.

The cells that prisoners were kept in at the Warden compound were clean. Ish. They were still dungeons, technically, so no one would want to get carried away with things like light, or breathable air. But there also wasn’t blood splattering the walls, visible rust on the sconces, and though damp and smelling of moldy straw, there was a surprising lack of reeking human filth assaulting the nose. 

It was one of the nicest dungeons Alistair had ever had the misfortune to wander into, but he was glad he’d been given a room instead of a cell. He supposed if he tried Elissa’s patience too deeply that she might threaten to move him down here. Maybe that’s why she had sent him down to speak with her erstwhile poisoner at all? To show him what he could be suffering. 

Erstwhile. That was an odd word. “Erst. Erst. What is an erst?” He was nervous. The idea that he was somehow responsible for this man’s life made him nervous. Because he was angry. He had dreamed of killing him many times since Walter had stumbled back to Kirkwall to tell Anders what had happened to Caralyn. Dreamed about killing him and scooping up Caralyn and holding her close and promising her that he would never let anything like this happen to her again. 

The tendons in his hands creaked. He made himself loosen his fists. 

It wasn’t only that he was angry, or that Topher had hurt Caralyn. It was that Elissa had told him to decide what was to happen to him, and it felt like a trick, or a test, or a trap. How could it not be? He’d learned some very hard lessons about the games his former lover played. 

It had taken him three days to decide he was ready to face the man whose life Elissa had given to Alistair. He stopped outside the bars of what was more of a cage than a room. He had a pallet, a bucket, a chamber pot, and dirty clothes. He needed a shave. But he didn’t look too terrible, all things considered. Beaky with eyes narrowed in advance of Alistair’s arrival. He’d have heard his approach, of course. 

When he saw Alistair his eyebrows lifted slightly and then he spat into the corner. Alistair wasn’t sure if he was offended or not. Was it possible to be more offended over spitting than attempted murder, kidnapping, near poisoning to death? He shook his head and folded his arms, well back from the bars. 

“Looks like she got her hooks in you good and deep, after all, boy.” The man’s voice was gruff, but drawling, as if he was amused, or bored by Alistair’s appearance. 

“Looks aren’t everything. I should know.” Hmm. Not exactly the stern intimidation he’d been hoping to muster. 

“Well, you come to threaten me? Or torture me? Something worse?” He shifted on his pallet, leaning against the bars at his back. It didn’t look comfortable. 

“Those are all things Elissa suggested I was allowed to do. Or execute you.” Alistair shrugged, trying to keep his voice and expression even. But there was that boiling knot of fury sparking in his belly. This man had hurt Caralyn, bound her, drugged her so deeply she nearly died. He wanted him to suffer. Truly, wanted it. 

There was a sudden stillness in the man’s face and then Topher smirked. “Lady Cousland said that, did she?” 

Alistair frowned at his barely masked surprise. “More or less.” 

“How much more?” 

Alistair cleared his throat. He didn’t owe this man any answers. And wasn’t it somehow perfect that Elissa would place him in a situation where he’d have to explain that he had right of judgement over him? Maker’s breath. 

“She’s gotten cold and canny since her mum and da died.” Topher laced his fingers together over the top of his head, hunching a little. “She tell you I acted without orders?” 

Alistair nodded tersely, one jerk of his chin. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear from this man what his actions or his orders had been. 

“Well, her orders were to collect you, by any means necessary.” 

“Any means.” Alistair repeated those words, rolling them in his mouth. He found himself believing every consonant and vowel. 

“Aye. And if you were to ask her I reckon she’d say my methods weren’t necessary for the task.” He unlaced his fingers, letting his hands drop to his knees, shoulders slumping. He picked at the whiskering threads around a tear in the knee of his trousers, grimy fingernail scratching and tugging, scratching and tugging. He glanced up at Alistair at the sound of a boot scraping on the floor and it turned out that was Alistair’s boot. He hadn’t decided to move closer, but he found himself very near the bars. 

“Kidnapping and poisoning an innocent woman until she nearly died, using her as bait, that was all _necessary_ then?” His arms were at his sides again, hands flexing. He wanted to hit him suddenly. Very, very hard. 

The bark of Topher’s laugh startled him. “Oh, so innocent and helpless your woman.” He snorted, shaking his head, gaze flat and joyless. “You know she threatened to feed that Bann Teagan to pigs? Said she knew of a livestock boat in the harbor that very night.” 

That should not have made Alistair’s heart clench and ache, because it was gruesome. Gruesome and creepy. But it did and for a moment he marveled that he could find feeding Teagan to pigs somehow sweet and endearing. He fought to keep his mouth from softening from the scowl. “Kirkwall isn’t a soft town.” 

“I’ll give you that. And your mage girl ain’t a soft slip, no matter how pretty her--” He broke off suddenly, gaze darting away from Alistair’s face. “Ah, well, you know what she looks like better than me, of course. What I mean to say, it was necessary to deal with her to get you out of Kirkwall. Any means.” He snorted. “‘Not following orders.’” He shook his head with a sigh.

Alistair just stared at him. Of course he hadn’t believed Elissa was blameless in this matter, and what Topher had told him matched with most points that he’d expected. That Elissa would try to make Alistair believe that her agent had gone rogue enough that he deserved to be executed wasn’t entirely surprising. But if he was telling the truth even if he did deserve death, then she surely deserved it as well. And Alistair wasn’t sure, but if she did, he himself might ultimately bear the responsibility for causing this problem. He sighed softly and then shook his head. 

“You tried to kill her. Nearly killed me. Nearly killed her again.” 

“You ever killed men or women because it was your job, son?” 

Well, that was different, wasn’t it? Like when he’d nearly let himself become a tool of the Red Iron, and had to kill Meeran himself to keep Caralyn safe, before he even knew her name. No. Maker’s balls. 

This was starting to feel more and more like petty revenge, the rage was real, the fury unsubtle and sour in his mouth, and he remembered that taste from the landsmeet, from the day he awoke at Flemeth’s hut and was told that Loghain had quit the field. He pushed away from the bars, turned his back, rubbed the back of his neck. 

He could set Topher free or he could have him executed. Why was choosing the noose or the headsman’s axe so hard? He’d dreamed of doing it with his bare hands more than once, but… but… He thought about the jobs he’d taken in the four years between the landsmeet and that night in the Tidewater Tart, when he’d looked into Caralyn’s angry, disbelieving blue eyes, and he’d killed bandits and slavers sure, Tal Vashoth, even other mercenaries. 

_Did you change so much that dissolution and ignominity is enough?_ Alistair shook his head at Elissa’s words that had been bubbling up in his mind off and on since she’d said them. She didn’t realize that this, here, was dissolution. This was where he’d lose himself if he allowed it. 

“You’ll be given the Joining.” His voice was harsh, and final. 

“What?” Topher’s head whipped over so he was staring up at Alistair, eyes wide. 

“The Wardens take criminals of all kinds.” Up to and including the Loghain. He shook that thought away. “It’s one of the things Elissa ended up threatening Caralyn with to get me here. It seems fitting. You’re unlikely to survive, but maybe you’ll kill a few darkspawn if you do.” 

“No! I won’t do it. You can’t force a man--” 

“Ah, now that is entirely untrue.” Alistair probably shouldn’t have felt quite so much satisfaction at the panic and horror in Topher’s face, but there was a grim sort of pleasure, that made him believe he’d chosen something that he could live with, and also… maybe was just? He rubbed his forehead at that thought and sighed. Justice for Caralyn, by making the man who abducted her a Warden? The pleasure in his stomach soured, but he shook his head. It was better than any of his alternatives. “Consider yourself Conscripted.”

He left the man shouting at his back, claiming family, obligations that he could not meet. When Alistair stopped by the steward’s office and explained his decision the man had looked at him with calm brown eyes, giving no hint at surprise or disapproval. He nodded and said he would inform the Fereldan Commander. 

After that Alistair took himself to the training grounds. 

It was later in the afternoon, the shadows gone long and purple against the summer sunlight. It was hot, hotter here than it had been in Kirkwall when they left. Bales of straw set up as bases for archery butts and target dummies had added a dusty, grassy smell to the air, and after the dank of the dungeon it was a relief. 

It was also a relief to take up a practice sword and shield and begin moving through the drills he’d learned more than a decade ago from the Templar armsmaster that had trained him in his earliest combat forms. 

The ease with which he settled into the stabbing, spinning, blocking, shifting, all of it let his mind quiet. The weight of the decision to Conscript Topher seemed to fall away and he didn’t have to wonder whether it was cowardly to let the flip of the coin of the Joining decide whether the man lived or died. Instead there was the weight of his weapons, the grit of hard packed dirt under the soles of his boots, and the slow developing ache of his muscles. 

Sweat was running freely from his scalp and into his eyes when he stopped to peel off his shirt and rub it over his face and head. He took up a two-handed sword when he returned to the rack, and began working those forms. He wasn’t as good with it as he was the shield and longsword, but that was an even better diversion, having to concentrate harder to keep the forms steady and his posture right. 

The light was beginning to grey when he heard a soft clearing of a throat behind him and he turned to see Elissa in light leathers leaning against one of the archery butts. 

Maker’s breath, the woman was posing. She had all of her limbs arranged in graceful lines, hands clasped in front of her, elbows tucked in, looking delicate, almost demure, and she was smiling at him, a sweet, appreciative smile that was so very familiar. His jaw clenched and he immediately dropped his eyes to the ground and spun to reclaim his shirt. 

“It’s good to see you out here, Ali.” 

He didn’t respond as he racked the practice sword and grabbed up his shirt. 

“I was worried.” 

When he glanced sidelong at her she was pacing toward him on silent feet, hips ever so slightly swaying. He frowned down at her shoes, the boots with hardened soles and a slight heel and she still made absolutely no noise on the grit and pebbles of the yard. It was disconcerting. When he looked back up at her face she had an eyebrow arched at him, eyes attentive… no, expectant. 

“I’m sorry, was that a question?” He shook out his shirt, frowning at it as he pulled it right side out. The wind had picked up as the sun set and the sweat on his skin was cooling. But really it was her that made him want the extra clothes. And some armor. Full plate wouldn’t go amiss. “Because it didn’t sound like a question.” 

“Hmm.” Her fingers alighted over his shoulder blade as he pushed his arms into the sleeves and he froze for a moment. “I was worried that maybe you’d let yourself go. I heard reports of drinking, loose women--” 

His teeth gritted, his jaw clenched as he jerked the shirt on over his head and then down, stepping away from her hand with a sharp breath. He could still feel the place her fingers had been warm against his sweat-cooled skin, like an itch he wanted to dig his fingernails into until the top layer of skin came off. “What do you want from me, Elissa? Honestly? Why are you here? Just to smile and insinuate and offend? Because you are offending me. Right now.” 

“Oh.” There was the faintest pout to her mouth, but she also seemed to be stifling a smile. “Honestly, Alistair. I came to see how you were. Padrig informed me you told him to prepare the Joining for Topher, and I was surprised you reached such a… considered conclusion.” 

The pleased smile that she gave him made his stomach twist in discomfort. Maker, if she was pleased he’d chosen to give Topher the Joining then how could it possibly be the right decision? He scrubbed his fingers back through his sweat dampened hair then let his arms fall limp to his sides. “Ah. Yes. Well, I wasn’t going to strangle him in his cell. Or chop off his head. He wasn’t the only one to blame for what happened.” 

She tsked softly, looking sympathetic. “No, he wasn’t.” Sympathetic? His skin suddenly felt too tight and too hot. “It has made me curious though.” 

He glared at her. He didn’t want to know what she was curious about. Didn’t want to learn that he’d failed the test or fallen into the trap. Thinking he’d found a way to slip his lead. Again. Only to find that he’d chosen the path she wanted. 

“Does it seem ironic to you? The man who abducted and injured the woman you seem to think you… well… care a great deal about, instead of taking bloody vengeance on him, you’ve decided to give him a calling.” She was watching him with such earnest study that he didn’t think any attempt to control his expression would fool her in the tiniest little bit. 

Of course she would try to make this about herself. Her and her decision to spare Loghain. He felt ill again. It wasn’t the same. Topher was no Loghain, and Alistair was not her. He was not pardoning the man who started a civil war in the middle of a Blight, who sold elves to Tevinter like they were dogs, who abandoned his own son-in-law on the battlefield, where his corpse was mutilated and desecrated. Topher had done violence, but it was Elissa’s violence he had done. 

Alistair was trembling, he could feel the twitching under his skin, all his muscles bunched and jumping, ready to strike. And if he did strike? Imprisoned, beheaded before the landsmeet? There had to be some other way through this, back to Kirkwall, away from the Wardens, away from the Hero of Ferelden. 

Maker this was awful. She was awful. He shook his head, tried to make a joke. “A Calling? Very funny. You must be one of the of the great wits of the Denerim court.” He sounded half strangled. 

“Are you well, dearheart?” 

“Do not call me that.” 

She cocked her head to the side, one eyebrow quirking. “Was that an order?” Her lips twitched and she stepped closer, a hand rising to settle on his shoulder. “I didn’t know you gave orders, Ali.” 

“Maker’s breath, Elissa. What in the void are you playing at? Are you trying to marry me to Anora or seduce me? Do you want me to be a Warden or a prince or a prisoner?” He shrugged her hand off his shoulder and stalked away toward the compound, steps long and furious. He hated that for just a moment her hand had been comforting, just the briefest flash, like part of his brain that he couldn’t even see in his dreams anymore (because they were all tangled up with a pair of mad apostates that he couldn’t even begin to describe, only that he woke up heartbroken half the time, aching in his smalls the other half) still associated her hand with approval, with reassurance. If Elissa was reaching to touch him, he had done the right thing. He needed a bath. 

He was just at the side door that led back into the main building when her voice called behind him, pitched just right to carry to him, with no strain in her tone, because Elissa bloody Cousland didn’t shout or get shrill. She rang like a bloody bell. “Running away after you ask such questions isn’t going to get you any answers.” 

Alistair turned to stare at her. He must have looked quite mad, with his eyebrows raised and furrowed, his hair dusty and sweaty standing up in all directions, mouth working as he tried to force some kind of exclamation out of it. All he could hear in his head was an indiscriminate string of profanity in Caralyn’s voice and he wished he had even half her way with words. Instead of even attempting, knowing he’d start to stammer and trip, and just sound stupid, he said quietly, tersely, “So, answer the question then.” 

The soft frown she gave him made him feel like a child about to be scolded for rudeness. He set his jaw until she spoke. “You asked if I was trying to marry you to Anora.” 

Alistair fought the urge to rub his forehead. He knew what he said. “Are you?” 

She let out a slow, deep breath, looking at the sky. It was her _Maker, give me patience_ expression. “That would be ideal. I’m afraid I can’t force you.” 

“You sound terribly disappointed.” 

“Well, if you don’t, she’ll likely have to execute you.” 

The hair on the back of Alistair’s neck raised. “Threatening to kill me if I don’t marry her sounds just a little bit like forcing.” 

Elissa raised one of her eyebrows at him, the auburn arch so graceful and manicured. “Well, it isn’t my fault that certain members of the landsmeet want a return to the Theirin line so badly they are willing to start a civil war in your name.” 

“That has nothing to do with me. The landsmeet can go hang.” 

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you think that. Is it always about what you want, Alistair?” He stared at her, he could feel his pulse in his temples. “I have rather gathered that you were quite willing to waste your life drinking and working as a mercenary, the fate of Ferelden be damned.” 

“I never wanted anything to do with that, and you know it.” 

“Such a boy still.” She was tall enough that as she stepped closer she didn’t have to tip her face too far to look up into his eyes. She didn’t reach for him this time, but he wouldn’t be able to cross his arm without them brushing her breasts. She was too close. Far, far too close. “There are benefits.”

“Benefits? You mean like having the people I care for terrorized? Being told what to do every day for the rest of my life? Oh, a loveless political marriage! That would be a benefit!” He was nearly shouting. Was shouting, though outside it wasn’t nearly as booming and echoey as it would have been in the library or the great hall. 

“Your life doesn’t have to be loveless.” There was something soft, almost fragile in her voice, and Alistair would have bet every pair of boots he had ever owned that it was a lie. Her hand came up slowly, approaching his face like he was a wary animal. Just before she touched his cheek his own hand flew up to grip her wrist, holding it away from his face, wrenched out and away at an awkward angle. Her eyes flashed, hard and fierce, the deep brown almost black in the fading light. 

“You’re wrong, Elissa. About a lot of things. But that, just there? That you are right about. My life doesn’t have to be loveless. But here with you? Or in Denerim, your puppet on the throne next to Anora? There would be no love there. Ever. And very little life.” He released her arm, unsure if he should feel guilty as she grasped it tightly in her other hand, eyes narrowed. 

“You should bloody listen to yourself, you… infant!” Every line of her was rigid, twitching with fury. “I’m trying to give you tools to make yourself happy and you just pout that they aren’t the toys you saw in the shop window. You are going to have to grow up some day, Alistair, and unless you bear up, start shouldering the weight of the responsibility the world has settled on you, your life as an adult is going to be brutal, and ugly, and short.” She was still holding her wrist to her waist as she spun and stalked away. 

Blessed Andraste. Alistair looked down at his empty hands, flexed his fingers several times. He might have broken her wrist without even trying. He hoped he hadn’t. He truly hoped so. Because what he needed, what he really, _really_ needed was control, and that was the one thing that Elissa Cousland had always managed to take from him. But always before she’d had it without him even noticing it was gone.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke struggles to make sense of her own emotional detritus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm generally not all about writing in-game scenes in this fic. Skirting them, summarizing them. I hope that it works in this case?

Hawke didn’t hear the shot over the shouting, shrieking, raving and clashing in the great hall of the Hightown Mansion Varric said Bartrand had recently reopened. She felt it though. 

There was a pain, hot, sharp, spreading in her belly. “Oh.” She looked down at the arrow protruding from her stomach, the dark patch spreading too quickly around the shaft. “Fuck.” She stumbled backwards, careening into a rage demon that appeared behind her, before staggering forward again as its raking talons slashed at her back, tearing long slashes through her robes and skin. She was falling. Fuck. 

The inside of Bartrand’s manor was a complete nightmare. Demons and madmen, the Veil pulled so tight, worn so thin, that it seemed to burst just from having her and Anders casting spells anywhere near it. She was sucking air that tasted like sulfur, burning shit, rotting meat, trying to stop the spinning in her head. Fuck. 

The last of her magic went to dragging the bowman under the waves of dark sleep, setting nightmares on him. She managed a grimace at the way his screams broke his voice almost immediately. Or maybe it had been broken by whatever had been going on in this mansion before Varric asked her to come help settle things with Bartrand. 

She pressed a hand next to the arrow, trying to summon enough mana to staunch the bleeding, but nothing was coming. Varric had two other guards, or mercenaries, or crazy fucking cannibals pinned, and at the top of the stairs she saw Anders turning, a flash of light arcing from him to where Fenris was a storm of blades and blood, his white hair matted red and black in places. He was the one who saw the demon that had toppled her reach down and wrap its searing, flame-bloated fingers around her neck and lift her. 

“Hawke!” The roar was unexpected, and her vision was dark as she fell, the demon exploding in a choking miasma of spite and fury.

Above her Fenris loomed, leaning over, eyebrows furrowed, worried, and suddenly Anders had bowled into him, shoving him bodily away. “No! Don’t you dare. Please!” He went to his knees, hands already lit when they reached toward her. The rough rush of healing magic closed the wounds from the demon’s talons, soothed the burns on her neck. “Andraste’s knickers, love. Don’t… don’t do that to me.” 

Fenris was muttering something to Varric about the guards, something about a steward, but he fell silent when Anders pressed his mouth against Hawke’s, fingers clutching her hair. She opened her mouth to protest, but he just fucking kissed her and it took her a second to push him back. “Fuck, Anders, still bleeding here.” He blinked at her, pushing down panic and tears and then startled when she nudged one of his hands to the arrow shaft sticking out of her abdomen. 

“Sorry. Of course. I just thought, when you fell… Maker. I’m sorry.” He began probing the wound gently, muttering to himself, or Justice. She let her head fall back onto the filthy, gore covered floor. 

She watched Varric’s feet shift into view, followed a few paces behind by Fenris’. When she turned her head to look at them, there was an measuring glint in Varric’s coppery eyes, and Fenris was glaring fucking daggers-- poisoned daggers-- poisoned daggers made of murder at the back of Anders’ head. 

“Something to say, dwarf?” Hawke gasped as Anders sent a trickle of magic into the wound. 

“I don’t see you for almost a week, Hawke, and you go making these big life decisions without informing your biographer. It hurts.” He shifted Bianca, and then chuckled as Anders seemed to be hunching down between his feathered shoulders, flushing. 

It had only been a handful of days since this new thing with Anders, and it was strange and tender and frightening. She’d been avoiding getting used to it, giving it a name, because that was around the time shit always went exploding on her. Now though, seeing his mortification at outing their whatever it was in front of Varric and… well he probably didn’t care one wit about Fenris’ feelings. Did he think she was bothered by their knowing? She wasn’t ashamed. She was just terrified. She raised a hand to brush hair off his forehead and caught his eyes when he glanced at her, frowning. She shook her head, managing a small smile past the pain, but that made him frown harder and refocus on his hands. She rolled her gaze back up to where Fenris was glaring at her now, and Varric was smirking. 

“It’s all very cocking amusing while I’ve got an arrow in my gut.” She winced as Anders carefully shifted the arrow and then nodded to himself. 

“Not in your gut, thank the Maker. If your intestines had been pierced this would be significantly messier.” He shot her a stricken glance and then settled himself with a firm shake of his head. He’d been twitchier than usual. Hawke wasn’t sure if it was guilt or regret or just a continuous argument with Justice about their suddenly complicated relationship, but he wasn’t at ease with her anymore. Not the way they’d been for so long. It was ridiculous and she didn’t know what it meant or how to fix it. “It isn’t barbed, but it’s going to hurt when I pull it.” 

That was a fucking understatement, a lot like saying that Isabela was friendly, or that Fenris could be standoffish. It hurt more coming out than it did going in, and she wound up with Varric holding down her arms and Fenris on her legs to keep her from thrashing. Once it was out the weird squirmy sensation of her flesh knitting made the otherwise pleasant sensation of Anders’ healing warmth… well weird and fucking squirmy. 

Still, it was intimate, made more so by their recent explorations that involved magic chasing over naked skin, crackling on lips and… well. She flushed and closed her eyes. When it was finished he brushed knuckles against her cheek, and then helped her up and pressed a lyrium potion into her hand. His expression was mostly still frowning, though not with the same severity as before. He looked worried in a way she was unfamiliar with. Varric remained amused, and Fenris prickled with an edge and sidelong glances that made Hawke sigh. She wondered if he’d try to show up in her bedroom to tell her she was making a terrible mistake. 

As if Anders could be a mistake that even registered on her scale of mistakes. Being in this fucking house was plainly a mistake. When she brushed by Anders on the way up the stairs she squeezed his hand gently. No, not a mistake. At least not yet. She had plenty of time to fuck everything up. 

The rest of the mansion was more of the same, blood and madness and evil. Death. Finally standing in front of Bartrand after years of planning revenge for his betrayal was… unsatisfying. Hawke stared at him as he raved and gibbered and saw the jovial mask that Varric wore over his own vendetta slide sideways. 

It had been the four of them in the Deep Roads, stranded by Bartrand’s treachery, so it seemed right that it was the four of them now. But it wasn’t right. This wasn’t the man who locked them in the dark, left them to die. Anders’ healing bought Bartrand a moment of clarity and it was too like years ago when Karl had been brought out of tranquility, with Bartrand begging Varric for something and Hawke felt the weight of it, the memory of the first time she held Anders while he was still reeking of the Fade and blood and she watched Varric ready Bianca while saying, “It’ll still feel good pulling that trigger.” 

She reached, laying a hand on Bianca’s stock. 

“No.” 

Varric’s face twisted, incredulous as he looked up at her, but somewhere in there, also relieved. “Hawke?” 

“Fuck, Varric, it isn’t… he’s your _brother_.” That meant something, didn’t it? Hawke knew about family, knew about loss, and she fucking hated Bartrand Tethras. Hated the memory of the stinking dark and the panic and the hurt and fury in Varric’s eyes. Hating their fucking moron backstabbing shitbird brothers together had been better for their friendship than almost anything else. But this? She shrugged and looked away, letting her hand drop. “It’s up to you.” 

Hawke could see Fenris frowning at her, puzzled and studying. Anders was a presence nearly vibrating with worry just behind her. Varric shook his head slowly and then sighed, shoulders slumping and Bianca dipping toward the floor. “I… I guess I can find someone to take care of him.” 

Hawke nodded and rolled her shoulders in a slow stretch, wishing that the decision was any lighter for Varric having chosen to let Bartrand live. Had she suggested mercy only because she was scared of having to face him with his brother’s blood on his face? When had she ever shied away from revenge when given the option, and what had she gained Varric? A lifetime of worrying that his brother might recover and still be the worst kind of selfish fucker? 

Her steps were a little unsteady, weak from the injuries and the healing, her head thrumming with the spike of power from the lyrium potion Anders had given her. She left Anders and Varric discussing where to send Bartrand, what sort of care he would require, and made her way carefully down the stairs to the entryway of the mansion. She needed air that wasn’t like trying to breathe through cloth that had been soaked in blood. It wasn’t until she leaned against the door to wait that she realized Fenris had followed her. 

He was standing just inside the entry hall with her, frowning at the floor that was probably tacky with brains and demon ichor under his bare feet. She scowled down at them as well, tensing as she waited for whatever it was he wanted to say. There had to be something, either about Anders or Alistair or Varric or something that was going to make her scream. 

After several minutes of silence Hawke let out a long ragged breath. “Well, where the fuck is it?” 

Fenris lifted his head to frown at her. “Where is what, Hawke?” 

“The lecture. The railing against my sharing my bed with the abomination. Whatever the fuck it is you want to say to me.” She planted the butt of her staff and leaned on it a little, her other hand lifting to push her hair back off her forehead. “Because Maker knows you never seem to let the chance pass to tell me how reckless and stupid I’m being, Fenris, so lets fucking have it.” 

She watched Fenris eyebrows draw together, eyes narrowing, and she expected bitterness from him, but there was something almost amused. Wry. He glanced over his shoulder, and then back at her. “You are asking me to disapprove of your choices?” 

“I’m asking you to tell me whatever it is you have to say.” 

He shook his head. “I doubt that you would hear it.” 

“For all you fucking think I don’t listen, I do, Fenris. I have always listened. To what you say. What you don’t fucking say.”

“Are we arguing about whether or not I should scold you, Hawke?” He looked puzzled, almost wary. 

Were they? She just wanted to know what was happening in her life, and if she was sleeping with Anders, refusing to let Varric execute his betraying brother, at least she could still have Fenris’ disapproval to keep her angry at night. She shrugged, shifting to look past him. She remembered when being alone with him hadn’t been so… well it had always been fraught. But it hadn’t made her feel so defensive before. “Well, arguing about something that stupid sounds like something we would do.” 

He coughed a soft laugh, and then shook his head. “Perhaps before. But…” He looked down and away, hair a soft fall into his eyes. “I worry, Hawke. We should leave it at that.” 

“Before what?” 

“Before you were nearly lost.” He shifted his weight, frowning at the floor. “Sometimes I think you are stronger than I gave you credit for, or closer to some selfless madness that I don’t understand. You could have asked a demon for help to save yourself. You did not. But then you choose to be with--” He broke off, seemed to weigh saying more for a moment and then shook his head, frustration curdling his features. 

The scowl on her face felt suspicious and narrow and Hawke knew that. Was he apologizing for thinking she might try to make a deal with a demon again? Or complimenting her? Or calling her crazy? She was sure that he was about to say something about Anders and Justice, but he swallowed it, and when had Fenris ever done that to spare her feelings? 

“Well I wasn’t fucking lucid for most of it. Who knows what I would have done if I wasn’t gagging down gallons of magebane.” She felt her throat tighten as she said it, the last word coming out somewhat strangled, the sensation of the funnel forced into her mouth that she can only half remember, the burning in her gut, the nightmares and the pain and there had been whispers, always whispers. But no, she would’ve saved her mother if she could have, but what of her would be left worth saving if she tried to deal with a demon for her own life? 

She could feel Fenris’ scrutiny, but she kept her eyes on the floor, her hand gripped tight around her staff, felt the spark and flare of the lyrium inside her. She was here, she was safe, and when she heard Anders call her name from what seemed like very far away she felt a panicky surge of relief. 

“Hawke?” It was from the stairs. 

“Here.” Her voice was only a croak, but she’d lifted her face enough to see Fenris turn his head. 

“She’s here, mage.” 

The terseness, the word _mage_ made her want to bristle, it always did, but she was just grateful when Anders brushed past him instead of stopping to squabble. His hand cupped her cheek and he frowned slightly. “You look a little wobbly.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Fenris shifted, letting out a faint grunt of disapproval behind Anders and she craned her neck to glare past him. “I said I was fucking fine.” 

Anders sighed and drew her gaze back to his. “I’m going to help Varric settle Bartrand. It may take a while. Go home. Get cleaned up. Rest.” He didn’t tell her to sleep, that made her heart stutter and the glare she was holding onto soften. No, he knew she wouldn’t. Still, she parted her lips to protest and he laid a finger over them. “Please, Cara. For me. You’ve just been healed. You need to eat. Yes?” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and then nodded. 

“I will walk with you.” Fenris’ statement made both their heads turn toward him and he frowned under the combined scrutiny. “If that is acceptable to you, Hawke.” 

Anders’ hand squeezed her shoulder lightly as he studied Fenris with an arched eyebrow. After a long moment he glanced back to Hawke. “It’s a good idea. You’re not entirely steady.” 

Fenris’ mouth tightened as he narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t ask if it was acceptable to you, mage.” 

“And I wasn’t giving you permission, you ass.” 

“Then why speak at all?” 

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose and drew a slow breath. “You mayn’t have noticed it, but Hawke can be a bit stubborn in letting people look out for her.” He turned to glare at Fenris. “I was trying to help convince _her_ to take your offer, because otherwise she might fall down in the bloody street and who knows if she’d be arrested for vagrancy or picked up by a random Templar or sold into bloody slavery, but her walking home alone can lead to the worst things.” He smiled then, one of his cold, glittering smiles that he got when he knew he was being sharp, cutting. “So, if you’ve retracted your offer just because I approve of it, would you kindly wait here with Varric while I take her home? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

Hawke couldn’t look at either of them as Anders went on. It was true. Fucking void. She shot a glance toward Fenris who seemed caught somewhere between anger with Anders and agreement, and the expression was such an insufferable tangle that she finally growled. “I’m going. If either of you fucking idiots wants to watch me walk less than a mile you are welcome to. But if either of you try to fucking talk to me I’m going to give you such horrors that the guard will think you’re possessed by demons and chop off your cocking heads to silence the screams.” She turned toward the door and stomped out. 

She heard Fenris say something low, all growls and flat intonation, and Anders’ response, tart and higher, “It’s a pleasure, Fenris, to have you as a guest in our home. Stay for dinner, won’t you?” 

The walk to the estate was silent, and tense, and Hawke found herself nearly panting by the time she reached the door. Because of course she was to blame for being hauled off to Ostwick, everyone’s worry, Alistair’s surrender to the Wardens. Of course Anders knew that. Somehow she hadn’t thought he blamed her, not exactly, even though she knew it was her fault. But maybe he was still angry. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t been able to seem easy with their increased intimacy, fretting at her more, seeming less relaxed generally. Because he hadn’t forgiven her. 

She’d apologized. Hadn’t she? Fuck. Hawke had been so ill, and then so fucking drunk in the weeks after their return that she couldn’t even remember. She knew she’d apologized for something, everything, the day she’d insisted he kiss her and everything else had fallen into place. But maybe it wasn’t specific. And of course, if he had feelings for Alistair, well… she blamed herself for that too. Fucking void. 

Later she would feel bad for ignoring Bodhan when she entered the house, didn’t even pause to see if Fenris followed her in. She needed to be alone. She didn’t want to be alone, hated the silence for the most part, but she could feel the anger in her gut giving way to despair, and she didn’t want Fenris or anyone else to see that. She wasn’t this weak. She could ruin lives she barely even brushed up against, but she didn’t have to be so fucking broken. 

There weren’t going to be any cocking tears though, Hawke was certain of that as she stripped out of her ruined robes and sank into the bath. And if she was even half as strong as she claimed to be she wouldn’t be shivering and blinking too hard by the time Anders returned. She could get her shit fucking sorted, apologize to him properly, and… She swiped wet hands across her face, flicking moisture away. She balled them into fists as she pressed them into her eyes for a moment before sinking lower into the water. 

She stared up at the high window on the far wall, trying to believe she had ever been better at this, but that was the worst kind of lie. She could be stronger though. For Anders, for Varric, for all of her friends. She didn’t need to keep letting them worry and pity and fret. 

Fucking Isabela and her meddling. Fucking Fenris and the worry in his eyes. Fucking Anders and his hovering. And fucking Alistair, wherever he was, tied to the Wardens and that fucking shitstain Elissa Cousland, all for Hawke’s stubbornness and pride. 

The light dimmed and the colors of the tiles faded as the water grew colder, and in the blue shadows of the bath she finally let the tears go. No one would see and if she was ever going to sell the lie that she was stronger for all of them, well, she would take this moment to be wretched and weak for herself. 

Maker’s poxy cock, her family would be so proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Not the longest wait ever!
> 
> Boo! No smut in this chapter! (Next time!)
> 
> Thanks, my dears, for always being amazing with the reading and the recs and the comments. <3


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders and Hawke fail to be completely functional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders POV. First time writing sex in QA from non-Cara POV. Hope it goes okay.

It took too long to get Bartrand settled. Anders was huffing with frustration as he climbed the stairs back to Hightown. It was well past the middle of the night, and there had been bribes and threats to be made to find a place within an asylum without involving Templars (because in Kirkwall if you talked to things that weren’t there someone always wanted to call the bloody Templars). Hawke would have been a liability in those discussions, so he was glad he had sent her home, but he hadn’t meant to leave her alone so late into the night. 

The likelihood she had put herself to bed was basically nil, and Anders was probably a terrible person in hoping that she was still awake, but he wanted to bury his face against her chest and smell the warmth of her soap, and forget how she’d looked half-throttled, half-flayed on the floor of Bartrand’s manor. 

The week they had spent sharing a bed was maybe one of the most electrifying (and he expected no accolades for that pun) and most terrifying weeks of his life. Half his waking hours were spent thinking about her skin, kissing paths down her throat to her collarbones, worrying that the next time might be the last time, because this was just a dalliance of the moment, a comfort, a posset. Other times he was overcome with the fear that he could give every part of him that was not Justice to her (as if he hadn’t already) and when he eventually, inevitably lost control, she would be ruined. Rent open emotionally or physically. Both perhaps. 

He let himself in through the front door, an odd luxury that he only allowed himself rarely. He knew she didn’t care if anyone saw him come or go, and the rest of her friends seemed not to worry about whether or not they would damage her reputation by being seen there, but for Anders… it just seemed wrong to impinge so much. She lived with, shared a bed with an abomination, a runaway Grey Warden apostate, and as much as he feared his presence in her life was temporary, she was still nobility with a name to ruin. Even if the title had been purchased with money accrued from skillful violence. 

Well, that wasn’t really all that different than any other noble, was it? 

Lamps were still lit in the library, and he eased open the door to see if she was sitting up, waiting for him, owlish, possibly angry. He ran through the apology again. The one he had wanted to speak as soon as the manor door had slammed behind Fenris. The one that he’d been crafting and recrafting, trying to find the words to say, _yes, I am an idiot, and I was just worried when I said you couldn’t look after yourself._ Obviously she could. She’d been forced to look after her whole family for… well, best not bring that up, actually. Still, the apology. 

The library was silent, and at first Anders thought it empty, but then he saw her dangling bare foot hanging over the arm of one of the chairs near the fireplace. The way it dangled, limp, toes relaxed, she was asleep. He smiled a little as he walked toward her. 

She was curled into the chair, a book on her lap, hair stuck to her face and neck in places. How could someone so capable, so fearsome and wild, look so small and… well more than a bit of a mess while she was still? The loose night gown she wore had plainly been pulled on while she was still damp from the bath, the pale rose linen translucent and clinging to her shoulders where her hair had dripped onto it. She actually couldn’t have been long out of the tub. Her hair was still wet, and her hands and feet were still visibly pruned. He tsked softly. Wash now or later? Once he got her up and into bed he’d be stuck there until morning. 

Truly, a terrible fate. 

And one better suffered clean and not still smelling like charred flesh and human excrement. She looked peaceful, and that was enough for a quick scrub. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She sighed softly as he withdrew, and maybe her face eased into something approaching a smile. 

Anders entered the bath in a hurry, not intending to soak. Just a scrub and a sluice, quick as you please. But the _bathtub_. Dwarven plumbing, tile and marble. It was hard to resist and despite the buzzing nest of disapproving hornets inside his head that was once his friend, he found himself settling in for a brief soak. 

As he ducked under the water to rinse the remnants of the scented soap from his hair he spared a slight twitch of guilt at the disapproval that radiated from Justice in taking advantage of the luxury. He surfaced, rubbing his hands over his face, sighing against the spike of frustration at the pleasure he was feeling in the warm water. “Quiet you.” His low murmur didn’t echo in the tiled chamber. “Hawke’s money didn’t buy slaves to carve and polish the marble for the basin, and you know it.” 

“Do you expect me to believe that Justice grasps even the faintest fucking concept of what money is?” Anders startled at the voice from the doorway and pushed his hair out of his eyes to blink at her standing there, arms folded, chin dropped just a little. The natural wave in her hair hair was more pronounced as it fell in damp strands into her eyes. 

The set to Cara’s jaw was a little tight, sullen, or wary, or possibly just tired. He studied her for a moment and then shook his head when her eyes narrowed in a slow glare. “It is a little abstract. A little too mortal.” 

She rolled her eyes in a quick flash. “So humans are the abstract ones? Sure.” She padded over toward the tub, paused just out of arm’s reach. 

“We’re the ones who can create things, hold ideas for the unreal in our heads.” He shifted to fold his arms on the raised edge of the tub, resting his chin as he watched her. 

“But a spirit can understand justice like it’s a real fucking thing?” Her fingers were in her hair, twisting it back away from her face. She curled it into a bun and then let the whole thing drop, scattering across her shoulders again, and giving her head a shake. She flicked pieces out of her eyes, lifting an eyebrow at him. Right. An answer. He was too busy staring at the way her hands were gathering her nightdress up to her hips. 

“No. Justice is a human concept that was shaped into the Fade by our dreams and aspirations.” He cleared his throat as she pulled the dress up over her head and flung it, a careless damp twist of linen more expensive than most pairs of boots he’d ever owned, at a bench behind her. She took a seat next to his elbow on the edge of the tub and his words hung, because he was a lech of a man, staring at her breasts then her mouth, and sweet Andraste, he wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore. “They, uh, spirits rather, only know about such virtues because mortals learned to value them.” 

“People value money. I know I do. You should too. It keeps us both safe here.” She reached out a slow hand, it almost faltered as it moved toward him, before her fingers ran into his hair. 

“That’s not… at all… Andraste’s knickers, love, this isn’t the easiest conversation to have with you and…” He broke off as he cleared his throat, his eyes drooping closed. These moments were the ones that made his hands shake when he thought about living without them. When he saw her fall earlier that night, and had truly panicked. The way she wore her skin in tension, defiant and shy at the same time, daring him to look, but warning him it wouldn’t be pleasant if he didn’t. The hands that seemed to be possessed of feelings she wouldn’t admit, tender, wandering caresses. 

“Money means the Templars don’t haul both of us off. Money means I can bribe ships’ captains to take mages out by sea. Money means that I can make sure you have the supplies you need to heal and help.” Her fingers ran back through his hair to the nape of his neck, where her nails scraped softly. She tugged lightly on his hair and he opened his eyes to see her frowning at him, or into him. “It isn’t as if I don’t want to use it, and I’d burn down the entire estate if it would mean the end of the Circle, but for the Maker’s fucking sake, Justice, let Anders enjoy a simple fucking bath.” 

The strange doubling sensation, the echo or afterimage of his own thoughts and feelings, it buzzed and lashed in discord, felt like a warm hum in harmony, and occasionally Hawke could force it down. Like now. Justice ebbed, and he was left staring up at her in wonder. 

Cara’s fingers loosened their grip as she studied him, and then let her hand slide free and settle on Anders’ shoulders. The track of the pads of her fingers tingled and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was sparking against her skin. Her hand finally settled on his forearm and squeezed lightly. He met her eyes with a quirked eyebrow. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?” 

She blinked at him, and then shrugged, frowning as she shifted to look away. “Aside from that explosive shit storm at Bartrand’s? Sure.” She nodded then glanced back, the frown a little tighter, a little… worried. “You?” 

Anders shifted in the tub and pulled himself up to sit on the edge next to her, hand raising to cup her cheek, and just like each time he did there was a flutter of disbelief when his hand settled against her skin and she didn’t slap it away or melt into dreamstuff. Hadn’t he had that nightmare a thousand times? Her skin turning to ash against his, black and blowing in the winds of the Fade.

Now, he merely had to hold back all the many parts of him that wanted to lean in and kiss her, tumble her back into the tub and slide against her, put the decadence of hot water and scented oils to use. He might’ve if she didn’t seem so damn unsettled. “Worried about you.” His answer was soft, honest. 

“You’re the one who healed me. You should know whether or not you should worry.” Her voice was not raspy, or gruff, so how she managed to sound so much like an old man suffering heartburn with just her intonations, always perplexed him. 

He couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “Ah, well, I was thinking more about what happened after that.” He stroked his thumb across her cheekbone, watching her blue eyes shift to his face and then away. “I’m sorry that for what I said to Fenris, love. He just… well, you know how it is whenever he decides to speak directly to me.” 

She rolled her eyes as she shifted slightly. He expected a jab in the ribs with an elbow or a poke from her finger but instead she leaned into him, resting her forehead on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for everything that happened that night, Anders.” He waited, silent, hoping she’d continue because what was she referring to? Tonight? What night? “I… was too fucking stubborn to do what you told me, and Alistair is…” He listened to her in silence as she mumbled against his collarbone, felt goosebumps rise on his arms as he realized which night she spoke of. “I’m sorry. You were right.” 

His arms slid around her and he pulled her closer, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other firm at her waist. “Cara, what? We’ve talked about this. It wasn’t your fault that Elissa sent men for him.” 

“You said, ‘wait there’ and when you weren’t back home I immediately turned around. I was so fucking worried that something had gone wrong, that Alistair was dying, and… fucking void. I thought I could take care of anything that might happen, and look what did? I couldn’t take care of any of you.” Her voice rose as she spoke, and by the end she was straining against his arms, trying to pull away, but he kept his hands where they were, just letting her put a few inches between them, but not letting her escape. 

“You took care of Varric today.” 

“That’s not what I’m fucking--” 

“And you took care of me just two minutes ago when Justice was trying to convince me I should be washing cold out of a clay pot in Darktown.” 

“But that’s different, you cocking--” 

“I’m not finished, Cara.” 

He could almost hear the muscles in her jaw creak as she clamped her teeth shut, glaring at him from within the circle of his arms. “You have lost so much in the last months. I’m not blaming you for being afraid of losing more. I wish… yes, I wish you’d waited that night, but if you think I’m angry, or that I think you are some incompetent fool, you’re wrong. You’re reckless, and impulsive, and have half the sense of self-preservation a nug has, but Maker, your heart, Hawke. Your bloody endless heart.” He shifted his hand on her neck so that it rested over her heart, above her breast, palm flush against her skin that blushed under his touch. “I know you would go throwing yourself into the darkest pits of the Deep Roads, you’d face Templars and high dragons, and Maker knows what else, but if you go looking for trouble in Ferelden against the Wardens when Elissa has the Queen’s ear and everyone else by the scruff of their neck, I don’t see how you can win. And we need you here. I _need_ you.” 

“If it brought back Alistair you would--” 

“If you compare the crush I harbor for that handsome idiot to what I’ve felt for you since…” He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. “You don’t understand at all, do you? I love you, Caralyn Hawke. I love you in a way that frightens me. I would drown this city in blood to keep you safe, and don’t ever mistake what that means.” 

Hawke’s chest had stilled, the thump of her heart under his hand the only movement, and she sat there, pulse beginning to race, holding her breath as she stared at him. Bloody idiot. This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted, to push too hard, to show her all the dark, raw depths of his devotion. 

When her lips parted, she breathed out around his name. Then drew in a long breath and said it again, steadier, “Anders,” with her brows drawn together. There was a moment when she might say more, her eyes flicking to his then to his mouth and then away and Maker, if she had said she loved him back how could he believe her when she had so much pain in her eyes? Of course it wasn’t him. So he leaned down and kissed her. 

She seemed to know, in the way she hadn’t with his words, what to do with that. She slipped her arms around his neck, tightening them as she pressed up against his mouth, lips parting as soon as he brushed them with his tongue. She could be prickly as a gorse bush, but sometimes she just melted when he touched her. Over the years when he’d thought about her, about this, about this and kissing her and naked, he’d always pictured her to be a fighter, pushy and blazing, all sharp, hot, stinging. 

She had her moments, Maker did she have her moments, but he was also surprised by the singular focus in her kisses, how her hands treasured while her teeth scraped. How she invited as well as demanded. And because Anders was not overburdened of wisdom most days, he could spend several handful of heartbeats aching thinking about how beautiful she and Alistair must have been together. It was enough to drive a man to distraction thinking about. 

Hawke pulled back from the kiss, and peered up at him with a lopsided half-smile that was almost a grimace. “I’m a bad influence on you.” 

“How’s that, now?” 

“I’m the one that makes big fucking threats for no good reason. You’re the one who pats my back and tells me not to kill everyone who pisses me off.” 

Anders chuckled and swung his legs out of the tub and reached for a towel. “I’m inclined to the opinion that your safety is a fine reason.”

“To drown a city in blood?”

He rubbed the towel through his hair and then down his chest, glancing at where she remained perched on the edge of the tub, watching him with warm eyes above the sardonic twist to her full mouth. 

“You don’t like it?” 

“It’s just… not very specific. Whose blood? Why drown the whole city? It’s already just one big fucking puss pocket. Maybe lancing it is a better plan. Or burning it.” She kicked one of her legs up and then stood when he extended a hand toward her, and his whole belly filled with slow warmth as she laced her fingers into his with an ease that erased her earlier sullen wariness. 

“You think that burning the city down is a better image than drowning it in blood?” 

She nodded, eyebrows raised, expression so solemn aside from the laughter in her eyes. “Too fucking right. I know how that much fire happens. That much blood?” She wrinkled her nose. 

“I was being a bit more figurative than that.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Fucking amateur. Threats have to be visceral. Specific. Like… if I ever see Topher again I’m going to cut off both his hands and force them down his fucking throat so he chokes to death on them.” She fell quiet, expression still, eyes dropping toward her feet. 

Anders tugged her in against his chest, arms sliding around her back, and leaned down to press his lips to her forehead. “Stay here with me, Cara.” 

She blinked and then shivered, arms circling his waist and squeezing him so tight it hurt. “See, fucking specific. Economical. Vivid. Proper threats are.” 

“You’re an artist, a bloody poet.” 

She went perfectly still at that, eyes jerking to his face. 

“What is it?”

“Just… nothing. Fucking, nothing.” She seemed to shake whatever it was away, and then surged up on her tiptoes, a hand coming to the back of his neck, to catch him in a hard kiss. 

He knew she was deflecting, whatever he’d said that had sparked some pain in her, she didn’t want to talk about, didn’t want to share with him. He pulled back from the kiss just enough look into her eyes. “Please tell me.” 

Her eyes hardened, shuttered, and she turned her face away from him. “I’d think you’d rather take advantage of the fact that I’m naked and ready to fuck you stupid.” One of her hands slipped over his hips, down between them where his cock twitched under the brush of her fingers. She planted a kiss at the base of his throat and he swallowed hard as she turned away and stalked naked through her dressing chamber into the bedroom beyond. 

The woman was a fever under his skin and finally able to let himself feel it, he could barely even pretend to resist the way his eyes tracked her. For years he’d followed her presence like a plant follows the sun, and now, Maker, having her naked and casting that glance over her shoulder, eyebrow lifted and chin jutting impudently, he trailed after her helplessly, the thrum of his pulse rising everywhere in his body at once. 

He caught up to her in the doorway to the bedroom, arms sliding around her waist and pulling her back flush against him. She arched a little, tipping her head so that he could lean down and kiss her, while her hand lifted to tangle in his damp hair, jerking him down into the kiss, teeth catching at his lips, spurring him with a ferocity that was surprising. 

“Andraste’s ass, Cara.” He breathed against her mouth once the kiss broke, and she shifted in his arms to face him, drawing him back toward the bed, eyes glittering under her lashes from the shifting wisps that she called forth. He could feel the surge and ebb of her magic, the way she drew on the Fade with a reckless thirst. The excess power crackled in her hair, violet and wild, and when he pressed her back onto the bed it snapped and sparked between them, almost painful. 

He was already aching, ready, more than, each brush of her skin against his cock causing it to twitch toward his belly. A fever or a thirst, he wasn’t sure which she was, really, but he hadn’t found the limits yet, the place where it quenched and sated. He shifted down to spread her, lick a stripe over her damp slit, but she caught a fistful of his hair before he got to her navel. 

“Just fuck me, Anders.” 

“Sweetheart, let me…”

She shook her head, jaw set and pulled at his hair hard enough to be painful. “No fucking coddling. Fuck me.” 

It was impossible, sometimes, to deny her. Like their was more of her in the world than ordinary people, and she made bigger ripples because of it, dragging others into her wake, leaving things different when she had passed. It was why half of Kirkwall knew her name, why she was owed favors from Hightown to Darktown, even by the Viscount, and why she was called before the Arishok by name. And now it was her insisting that he fuck her, forgetting foreplay, forgetting tenderness, caresses, and it made his balls tight and his throat tight and he slid back up to kiss her hard and sudden. 

There was the slightest squirm and fumble as she shifted under him, a hand reaching to nudge his cock up, getting the angle right, while her teeth scraped his lip and her other hand scrabbled against his lower back, trying to pull him in. He turned his head to pant against her shoulder, holding still as stone while she tried to buck against him. He felt like he was still missing something, some vein of hurt that was making her scratch and bite at him, made him wonder if she was here with him, or somewhere else in her head. “Cara, what is it? What do you need?” His stubble scraped the skin of her throat below the line of her jaw as he spoke. He kissed it as she relaxed slightly, gasping as his tongue chased the sting away up to her earlobe and he closed his mouth around it. 

“You. All of you. Fucking you. Fucking void, Anders, I just want to so fucking much. I… Please.” Her voice broke as he relented, pushing in as she begged him, fucking into her like it meant as much as breathing, as necessary, as natural. 

This was different. In the week since the first time there had been exploration, adoration, coaxing and teasing and Maker, just loving her. But this was the first time she had wanted to be beneath him. He kissed her again as he dragged one of her legs up, opening her wider, sliding in deeper. Her eyes fluttered but didn’t close as she watched him, and she broke the kiss, lips wet and open, panting. “Please.” And of course, anything, everything for her. He let go.

There was no patience in this, what kindness there was existed in the giving what she wanted, meeting her eyes and watching her face scrunch and furrow without slowing or gentling when small pained mewls escaped her. When she panted for more he gave, crashing harder against her, driving her up the bed an inch at a time.

It was different. Different than Cara had been, different than any hard fuck Anders had ever had. There’d been plenty of lovers who he’d experienced passion with, or quick, desperate couplings, but this… it was different. His fingers were bruising her leg and he shifted that hand to press against her clit, sending a slow lick of energy over it, chasing along her nerves so she arched and screamed as she came, her hands clapping over her mouth a second too late to muffle it entirely. 

Well, everyone else in the house was long abed, and hopefully that short shriek wouldn’t wake them. Her lightning was skittering everywhere as her muscles slowly relaxed and he paused until she had collected herself. She whimpered softly when he twitched inside her, and rolled her head to meet his eyes. 

“Okay, love?” 

She nodded, a tiny, timid thing, and he fell forward to kiss her, long and sweet, and tender with a slow roll of his hips. Gentle, tiny nudges until she was rutting with him, whimpering as he took his time. Now there was teasing, and caresses, the the fight was gone from her, but not the hunger, and her eyes never left his face. He wanted so much to be able to help, answer the want in her eyes, the searching query. This helped, he hoped it did, even if he wasn’t, maybe, who she really ached for. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her neck. He wanted this, he did, and she wanted it too, but Maker, he wished that he was the one she wished for; when she wept in the night, it wasn’t for him. 

The second time she came he was on the edge, and the way she clenched and fluttered around him dragged him over. Sparks danced under her hands and in her hair and behind his eyelids. He came to rest on top of her, face still buried in her neck and when her hand rose to brush at his hair he shivered. 

“Anders?” There was worry in her voice, and he shook himself before rolling off. He looked at her eyes, huge and bruised with weariness, and why hadn’t he just insisted on sleep? They were both too frayed, too tired, and now… now they were both scraped raw. He felt hollow, with Justice receded into the far distance, and without the sated lassitude he should feel. 

But the worry in her eyes, the way she was studying him, she could tell he was… what was he? Shouldn’t he feel warmth in her presence? Where had this pane of glass between them come from? Her light, as always, reached him just fine but the warmth was something he had to remember or imagine. It wasn’t truly for him, this wasn’t his life. He was pretending again, that the mask of the the man was actually him but he didn’t want to run anymore. The very thought of returning to grinding loneliness made him panic but he knew there would come a day she wouldn’t be able to stand by his side. He raised a hand to her cheek, forcing a small smile. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“No, fuck, Anders, you would never.” 

There was something so sure in her tone, defiant in the face of all evidence and sense. His smile became crooked as he traced his fingers down to the bruises forming on her flank and soothed them away with a trickle of magic. “You sound rather impossibly sure of that, Cara.” 

She snorted at that, and rolled her eyes before curling in toward him, breath warm but still cooling against the sweat on his chest. “Maybe just fucking trust me on this.” 

Trust. Well yes, obviously, because it was exactly that easy. He turned his face into her hair, letting out a slow sigh and pulled her tighter against his chest. He had threatened to drown Kirkwall in blood to keep her safe, but he didn’t trust that he wouldn’t hurt her. In a life made up of ironies, caprices of fate, and the most ridiculous happenstance, he knew an an absurdity when he heard it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday you crazy kids will manage to construct a functional relationship. Maybe. 
> 
> Thanks, as always for reading and commenting. I hope it continues to please. :)


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair reaches for his freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for bearing with me during this long break between chapters. I moved, started a job, had some family medical issues to deal with, and all of a sudden it's been five weeks since I updated which makes me cranky. Maybe it makes you cranky too? 
> 
> This chapter is a little different, as I needed to make a strong plot push toward getting everyone back together. It's a little on the shorter side, and has a few smaller scenes. I'm kind of nervous about posting it because it's been so long, but on the upside, next chapter? Things come back together. :D

Topher survived the Joining. 

Alistair, a week later, still wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about that. He was sure that it was awkward, the look the older man gave him over the mountain of food he shoveled grimly into his mouth in the dining hall. It was maddening when Elissa issued orders that had Alistair training with him, explaining the Blights and the Darkspawn and all the things the man already knew about the way they poisoned the land and carried off women since he had, in fact, lived through a Blight relatively recently. 

It was awful. And Alistair was awful for wishing he’d just died to that first oily swallow that slid from the chalice into the mouth and filled all a recruit’s senses with sweet-vile-rotting-corpse-offal and their head with the song. 

But no, Topher survived the Joining. 

Alistair had put that from his mind now, or tried anyway, because sure as anything if he wanted to not think about something that was the only thing he seemed to think of. Like Anders and Caralyn. The stack of thick vellum missives in his hands rustled as he forced his fingers to unclench. It wouldn’t do to rumple them. They needed to be unremarkable. 

Unremarkable. That was something he had been his whole life, wasn’t it? He ran fingers through his hair, straightened his tabard just a touch, and then rapped his knuckles in a slow triple knock, the knock of a man sent on an errand beneath him, that he filled grudgingly. 

The Ansburg Warden-Commander’s second was a brusque woman, a tight blond bun that was going grey in thick bands of iron, and tight lines around her mouth. When the door to her study opened and she saw him shifting on her… well it wasn’t a stoop. He was in a hallway, outside her door, and the look she gave him made the posturing of a boy ten years younger than he actually was seem less of a lie. 

“What’s this?” Her eyes had fixed on the letters, and she extended a hand for them automatically. 

“Ah. Yes, sorry.” He held them a little closer to his chest. “The Warden Commander. Um, Elissa. Rather, Ferelden, damn.” He cleared his throat. 

“You are as big an idiot as they say, aren’t you?” Her eyes narrowed as she peered at him and then flicked her gaze back to the letters. 

“Well, I wouldn’t… no. I--” He let the stammering just happen, as it had a thousand times in his life, but this time he wanted it to. To just be seen as inept as everyone seemed to think. The more boyish the better. “These are from her, the Commander--”

“Yes, yes, I know who the bloody Fereldan Warden Commander is, you great lummox. Now what exactly is it you want?” Her hand was still extended, expectant, with crooked fingers. 

“She wants these to go out with the evening patrol to the first ship to Ferelden. Well, not just Ferelden. There’s Orlais in here too, but who’d complain if that got lost along the way?” He cleared his throat at the black look she gave him and shoved the letters into her hand. “I would. I would certainly complain. Very harshly. Grr.” 

She snorted, flipping through the small stack, each with a neat address painstakingly lettered on the front, shaking her head. Alistair could see the slight quirk of a smile that she smothered as she looked back up at him, and he grinned, all sunny innocence, with a hopeful quirk of his eyebrows. “You were supposed to have this out with the midday post, weren’t you?” 

“Maker! No! I--” He rubbed the back of his neck again and then nodded, staring down at her feet. “You won’t tell her, will you? I’m already in enough mabari sh- err. Please?” 

The smile she’d been forcing down bloomed crooked and rueful on her mouth, lines deepening at the corners of her eyes. “Maker’s sake, you’re a menace with that smile. Fine. Shoo. And don’t go telling anyone I did you any favors.” 

“Thank you.” The gratitude was real as he made a Fereldan bow, arms crossed over his chest. “Thank you.” She swatted him with the sheaf of vellum and turned back into her study, leaving Alistair practically panting with relief in the hall. 

* * * * * * * * * 

“No, no. No no no, that isn’t it at all!” Alistair shook his head, cheeks coloring as he held up his hands, warding off Galen’s slow advancing step, taking in the smirk, the quirked eyebrow, and feeling a hard clench of his heart. He hated it when the other Wardens gave him those looks. 

“That so?” The Starkhaven accent had been hard to muddle through at first, but Alistair had eventually figured out how to decipher the misplaced consonants and lilt. It had been a little better before, maybe, when he was just busy not getting hit in the practice yard by the other Warden, who had turned out to be a ferociously adept swordsman and improved Alistair’s footwork considerably. Of course that was before he’d started to decipher all the innuendo and hadn’t had to worry that every other sentence out of his mouth was going make him blush as he speculated as to _why_ Alistair had turned down every offer for company any of the other Wardens had made him over the last two weeks. “Well, if you’re not betrothed to the Queen of Ferelden, I don’t see why you aren’t eager to work off a bit more of that anger you carry around.” 

“This is going to be another round of you offering your sword, and things about sweaty muscles, isn’t it?” He rubbed his forehead, and then looked at Galen evenly. “Or is it going to be another lecture on the importance of keeping my hides properly oiled?” 

Galen’s mouth dropped open to answer, but he paused and swallowed, paling as something behind Alistair caught his attention. He was retreating down the hallway toward the barracks commons before Alistair had even finished turning his head to find Elissa standing at the top of the short flight of stairs, looking down at him with her face so blank it could well have been an executioners hood. 

“Good evening?” A bubble of giddiness rolled his stomach as her eyes narrowed just a hair. Maker’s breath she was furious. He fought the urge to bow and flourish, to crack a grin, to call her grouchy and admonish her about how she’d never get wrinkles if she didn’t let herself frown now and then. “Can I help you with something, my dear?” Ah, well, that wouldn’t help would it? He bit the inside of his cheek as that old endearment, slathered all over with irony slipped over his tongue, and he wondered if it would be worth it when she stabbed him, just seeing the way her control slipped and the flush rose in her cheeks. It was so rare to see Elissa ruffled, let alone so very obviously enraged. 

“What was in the letters, Alistair?” 

Four days, they had a four day headstart. They should be at sea by now, and unless she could magic up a gryphon to fly across the Free Marches and the Waking Sea, there was little chance she’d be able to get them back before at least a few of them found their recipients. He scratched his chin idly as he considered. “Fond wishes to old friends?” 

She held up her hand, the pleasant smile she was trying to force quivering at the corners of her mouth, as she ticked names off one finger at a time. Who in the void was she smiling for? Alistair glanced over his shoulder toward where Galen had gone, but there was no one there. “Anora. Eamon. Grand Cleric Elemena. Empress Celene. The First Warden.” She let out a soft, odd little laugh. “And Vaughan Kendalls. Why on earth would you send a letter to _Vaughan_ of all people in the world? Nothing to Kirkwall, nothing to your woman.” She was closer, having paced down the stairs one slow step at a time, and as she looked up at him, eyes studying his, cold, angry in spite of the smile she still tried to wear. “So, Ali, dearheart. What was in the letters?” 

The onionskin sheets he’s been keeping in his pocket for the last four days rustled as he pulled them out. They were a little wrinkled, a bit creased, where he’s had to read and reread the words that he’d copied so painstakingly six times in fairhand. He’s more or less memorized them by now. “Ah, yes, well, I saved you a copy. I thought it only fair.” He ducked his head and then brought his chin up slowly, smiling back at her, bright and false and it felt… amazing to say it out loud as his heart thundered in his chest. “It’s a reiteration of the abdication I gave at the Landsmeet. Back when you exiled me. You remember!” He mastered the urge to take a step back as she snatched the small bundle of papers from his hand. “Only this time it’s in writing, and I signed it, and I sent it to Val Royeaux and Weishauppt as well. And I thought Vaughan might be persuaded to read it at the Landsmeet, if neither Anora or Eamon was game. It’s a bit of a gamble, but he never seemed to like you very much, so mucking up your plan seems like something that disgusting sot might want to do.” 

Could he hear her jaw creaking as she unclenched her teeth? He might have expected her to shout, or berate him, or even slap him. Instead she was reading quickly, her lips moving as she breathed his words to herself, too low for him to hear, but he knew them well enough by then to follow along until she suddenly was practically shouting. “‘Due to limitations incurred during my tenure as a Grey Warden it is unlikely in the extreme that I would ever be able to fulfill my duty as both King and husband and father a Theirin child.’” She slapped the papers against his chest. “They’re going to think you’re a bloody eunuch, you lunatic!” 

“How ever will my pride bear it?” 

She started pacing, a short, liquid stalk between him and the stairs and back. “I can fix this. It isn’t… we can prove you aren’t. Eamon and Anora will know the truth and…” 

“Any child Anora ever bore was like to be a bastard, and now they’ll know it. They are not getting a Theirin heir, none of them.” 

“So you want to be executed.” 

Ah, that was still a danger, yes. But he shrugged. “If everyone thinks it’s that necessary to keep me from being King, something they know I’ll be doubly useless at now, I suppose I can’t stop you for ordering it.” 

“Or I could leave you to die in the Deep Roads, you useless idiot.” She said that as sweetly as she’d ever whispered she loved him. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. 

“Well, yes, that is also something that could happen.” Not ideal, no, but Maker, it was time for him to be quit of her for once and all. 

* * * * * * * * * 

When she’d threatened to leave him in the Deep Roads to die, Alistair hadn’t expected they would return there quite so soon. But here he was, a week later, wondering if he’d ever get the stench out of his nose. Burning genlock did not smell unlike a horse, dead a fortnight, tossed on a tar fire. He thought anyway. 

The band of Wardens was a small one, only seven all told and this time Elissa was leading them personally. Well, impersonally if you considered how little talking to anyone other than Nathaniel Howe she did. Most of the orders came from him, and Elissa moved as silently as she ever had, her knives dripping with death, well poison, and also rather a lot of entrails here and there. 

It was making Alistair a little twitchy being down here with her, no clear idea where they were headed, only that there was a location in the Deep Roads under the Free Marches she had been instructed to investigate, and other than that there was darkspawn, and killing, and buckets of quelling glares whenever anyone tried to drum up conversation beyond, “Oh look, more hurlocks to kill.” 

Galen was the recipient of those glares at first, and then somehow instead of being Alistair’s… well friend would be a bit generous for someone who seemed to only speak with an intelligible accent when he was speculating on whether Alistair handled his, er, sword as well as his sword. Regardless, Galen had been tugged away by small, slow smiles shot his way by Elissa and carefully placed hands, and Alistair wasn’t sure if he was meant to be jealous, and if that’s what she wanted who he was supposed to be jealous of? 

It did call to mind a conversation with Anders, in Hawke’s kitchen, about Elissa’s tendency toward rescinding gifts as punishment. Her seducing Galen didn’t seem very punishing, and if she thought he had an attachment to the man she had plainly gotten worse at reading him. It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so exhausting, and it was somewhat of a relief to find himself placed on watch with Topher. At least he had some idea where he stood there. 

Topher hated him for conscripting him, and Alistair was comfortable with loathing him back for ever laying a single finger on Caralyn. No complicated motivations there. Just mutual animosity veiled by a brusque professionalism that Alistair recognized from his days with mercenaries of all stripes. Getting the job done with people you found morally repugnant was something he’d learned about after he’d left the Wardens. 

How would his life be different if he’d learned that lesson earlier?

He was staring into the darkness, ignoring the small huffs and grunts from Elissa’s lean-to, angled away from the fire, rolling his eyes when her voice carried just far enough that it couldn’t be an accident. 

“I figured him for a bum-boy the way he was casting eyes at you.” Topher spat onto the stone as he shifted on the other side of the boulder, the shadow screening him from the small fire, preserving his night vision. Cave vision. Darksightedness? 

Alistair swiveled his head toward him, eyes narrowing, eyebrow raising. “What are you on about?” The distaste laced into the words _bum-boy_ in those flat, coarse vowels, made Alistair’s hands clench into fists. Topher wasn’t going to enjoy his tenure as a Warden with that kind of attitude, where liaisons were frequent and fluid, Alistair had discovered. Even if he hadn’t partaken.

“Just, figured he was your present for behaving as she thought you ought. You do somewhat that revoked your princely status?” There was a flash of teeth in the shadow, Topher’s grin. 

“He’s a person, not a present. And I didn’t… there was nothing… no.” He hunched a little lower. He didn’t need to explain himself to Topher. “Besides, I don’t want anything she can give me.” 

“Except your freedom, I’d warrant.” 

“Oh, is that something she’s likely to give?” Alistair wished they could go back to the sullen silence, now that whatever Elissa and Galen had been doing was done. He didn’t want to be having this conversation with Topher, who despite claiming an allegiance to the Cousland family, seemed as mistrustful of Elissa as he was of everything else. 

There was a long measure of silence. “Ah.” 

“What? Ah? Ah what?” 

“You’re thinking you’ll take it, then, your freedom?” 

That was a question, wasn’t it? Alistair wasn’t sure he could. He could try, because he’d come to realize that the freedom he thought he’d had, from Elissa, from the Wardens, had been a lie. His banishment was just another tether, one that could be tugged. 

So, if it was to be truly free, he would have to reach for it. Not simply drift, tugged in currents not of his making, sucked into still pools by eddies that represented only stagnancy. He grimaced. A swimming metaphor. He’d managed a swimming metaphor. Or perhaps sailing? His grimace quirked into a lopsided smile, thinking about Isabela, and the rest of Caralyn’s friends. 

How could any man miss Kirkwall, with it’s demons, mad Templars, blood mages, Tevinter slavers, and general odor of despondency that oozed from the stone? But he did. Maker love him, he missed it. Missed Caralyn. And… well. He pushed those thoughts aside, refusing the confusion that they always caused him. 

“I’ll try,” he answered finally, in a small voice, and the silence didn’t seem to indicate if Topher heard him, or what he thought if he had.

* * * * * * * * * 

There was light, finally. More than the eerie glow of lyrium, smoking torches, or the strange glowing crystals they’d encountered in the deepest reaches. Sunlight, issuing from the long sloped tunnel, not bright enough to see much by on its own, but there. Alistair wiped at his forehead with the back of his wrist and shot a weary glance at Elissa and Howe who had their heads bent over a set of maps. 

“This is the entrance they used.” 

“Right, but we don’t know which branch from here…” Howe pressed a finger to the map. 

The urge to just bolt up the tunnel and strip out of his frankly filthy armor and lie on whatever patch of green he could find was growing. Maker, it had been a weary slog, longer than the trip from Ostwick to Ansburg. And he had no idea where this particular Deep Roads entrance was located. It could be anywhere from Antiva to Tevinter. 

“All the information we have on the Tethras expedition came from rather unreliable sources, and we’re left trying to interview a lyrium addled dwarf again.” 

“If we knew where to find him.” 

Alistair was staring at the back of Elissa’s head. “I’m sorry, the Tethras expedition?” He didn’t think laughing about this was a good plan, but it was building in his chest. 

“Shut up, Theirin.” 

Elissa turned slowly to look at him, the first time she’d acknowledged him in days. “Wait, what do you know of it?” All the sweetness had gone out of her after their confrontation over the letters. Cold, officious, callous. It was a relief, really. 

“You don’t know?” His voice climbed a register as he fought back the giggle. They were looking for reliable information on the Tethras expedition to the Deep Roads and they apparently didn’t have any clue as to Caralyn’s involvement?

“We know Bartrand Tethras led an expedition to the Deep Roads, found a thaig much deeper than our maps run, and that some sort of disaster led him to bring back less than half of his original caravan. None of them seemed to be able to explain coherently what had happened, or what route they took.” Elissa’s boots were silent on the stone as she paced closer, brown eyes narrowing. 

“And Bartrand’s brother Varric? Caralyn Hawke’s investment in the whole thing? The fact it was Anders who gave them the maps?” These were stories that Anders had told him in the long evenings when Caralyn was missing, explaining how he came to meet her, how all her friends had assembled as she scrabbled for coin and status to protect herself from the Templars. 

Topher’s voice was gravelly and somehow droll as he spoke from behind Alistair. “Andraste’s perky tits, wasn’t Caralyn Hawke the name of the lady you ransomed back for your bastard prince’s cooperation, Commander?” 

Alistair felt the hair on the back of his neck raise as a small quirk pulled at the corner of Elissa’s mouth. That… wasn’t good. No. There was nothing good would come of that slow growing smile as she tilted her head slightly to the side. The chill grew worse when she spoke, tone sweet, smooth. “Well, since you’re probably just a useless sack of meat to me now, at least so far as the Landsmeet is concerned, Ali, maybe this is something you can accomplish instead.” 

“What exactly?” Oh, yes, she was angry. Very, very angry about the abdication letters still. 

“You’re going to get the information about the red lyrium and the thaig that Weisshaupt wants since you’re on such friendly terms with these people.” 

Alistair blinked slowly, and then shook his head. “I’m not sure you understand how that will probably go.” If Caralyn knew Elissa was in the city, he rather thought she’d spend a great deal of energy trying to kill her instead of answering any questions. 

She snorted and shook her head, spinning on a heel. “If she isn’t cooperative, we can always report her to the Knight-Commander. We’ll make Kirkwall in three days if we don’t waste any more time here.” Alistair watched her begin the climb toward the surface, his palms suddenly sweaty and the giddy mirth in the pit of his stomach turning heavy and sour. He’d only introduced a new reason for Elissa to hurt Caralyn. 

Maker’s breath, what a fool was he?


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke tries to hold back the tide of fire and dying in a city made for those things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! A new chapter already! A little on the shorter side, but I figured you'd forgive me since it didn't take 300 years to write.

“Hawke.” 

“Do not fucking talk to me right now, Aveline.” The sky was choked with ash and as she ducked under the timbers that a collapsed Lowtown building had spilled across the alley another explosion rocked the cobbles under her feet. She caught herself against the wall, eyeing the rubble above her head and then finished scrambling under it. She almost didn’t slow to wait for Aveline’s larger frame to struggle through.

“Hawke, we should head to the Keep and rally my guardsmen!” Her guardsmen. Her fucking guardsmen. How many had died in the dust at the Arishok’s feet because Aveline, in her arrogance, had thought he gave one single fuck about the laws that failed to govern Kirkwall? Five? Six? Hawke couldn’t remember. Didn’t even know their void-taken names. 

“You do whatever the fuck you want, Captain. I have to make sure Varric made it home, that Darktown hasn’t caved the fuck in, and stop whatever cocking massacre is happening here. You want to start with fucking Hightown where the walls are thick and the guards already are, that’s your fucking business. As usual.” Hawke turned down the alley that ran behind the Hanged Man, avoiding looking at the spot where Alistair had fucked her against the wall the first night she met him. 

“You’re going to need help!” Aveline grabbed her arm before she could duck into the tavern, and Hawke didn’t even hesitate before shoving her away with a tiny pulse of force, her magic barely leashed. They were both lucky that it hadn’t been an arc of electricity. 

“I’m going to get fucking help. You, go do your _job_. I am going to do mine.” She watched Aveline’s eyes skim over her face, read the worry, the pale, twitching tension, guilt and fury at what was happening to her city. Their city. “Fuck. Be careful. I’ll see you up there once I know they're safe.” Varric, Anders, Merrill. Maker fucking save her, if any of them had been hurt in the sudden onslaught of gaatlok explosions, Qunari rushing through the streets demanding conversions at sword point, herding people who assented into pens like animals, that might just be crushed under a collapsing building (and she couldn’t let herself think about how she had seen children’s bodies under the rubble, could not, she had to run faster, find Anders, and then find something to fucking kill). 

“Take care. I expect you’ll make it through. You always do.” Aveline stuck out a hand, and Hawke looked down at it, the hand that had held a sword, sometimes willingly, sometimes grudgingly, ever since fucking Lothering. She sighed, gripping it, looking back up to Aveline’s face and nodded. Then she ducked through the doorway and through the store room behind the bar.. 

There was a mass of people gathered in the common room, some cowering, others shouting about the Chantry being right about the Qunari heathens, at least one knot of dirty young shits who couldn’t find work with any of the local crews discussing what could only be looting. They were going to get themselves killed. 

Well, it would save her the trouble of doing it herself in a few years when they’d formed some gang of turds that she tripped over in the middle of the night. She looked at their bad haircuts and the flat notes of their accents, Fereldan all over. Little shits. 

Hawke grabbed Corff by the back of his shirt. “You seen Varric?” 

“Yeah, him and some of yer other crew are upstairs. You hiding in here with the rabble, Lady Hawke?” 

She snorted and gave him a shove, trying not to feel giddy with relief that at least some of her friends had already made it here. “Right, and suffocate under all this stink? We’ll head out. You need to bar the doors.”

“You think these’ll stay put?” 

“There isn’t any looting worth doing. Just a fuck lot of dying. The Qunari are pulling people out of their homes, and putting those that won’t swear to follow the Qun to the sword.” She held Corff’s eyes and he frowned. 

“And what if they just blow the door off its hinges with that demon-fire they’ve got?” 

Hawke met Corff’s eyes and shrugged, a slow lift of her shoulders. She had no idea if they would bother with the Hanged Man, the dregs of Kirkwall as far as the Arishok would see it. She hoped not. Varric would be pissed if they blew up his tavern. “I guess you’ll have to decide if your faith in the Maker is worth dying over.” 

The grizzled barman barked a laugh and rolled his eyes. “Right.” 

Hawke shook her head and took the steps up to the suites, not even stopping to knock before she threw Varric’s door open. The dwarf was pacing by his fireplace, and he whirled to see her, eyes skipping over the places her robes were torn or scorched, but she was relatively unbloodied, and the relief there was plain. “Nice of you to join us, Hawke.” 

“Oh, Hawke, you’re alive! I told Varric you would be, not that he argued, but it is a bit grim out there isn’t it? And he said you were with Aveline, and Aveline is rather hard to kill, but she’s not here now, is she alright? She didn’t run off and leave you like Isabela did, did she?” Merrill’s hands were clasped under her chin and when she mentioned the pirate’s name her voice dropped, barely audible. 

Hawke stopped herself from grinding her teeth at the mention of Isabela. That… that had been a fucking disaster. _Fucking pirate_.

“Aveline is fine. She’s heading to the keep to “rally the guard” fat fucking lot of good those fuckwits usually are.” Hawke poured herself a glass of something from the sideboard, small beer or tea maybe, and tossed it back to wash the smoke from her throat. She didn’t taste it beyond relief from the ash and sulfur that had coated her mouth and nose after the first set of explosions. She set the cup down, and nodded at Fenris who was watching her with disdain or worry, it was so fucking hard to tell sometimes. There was no one else in the suite. She looked back to Varric. “Anders?” 

“Haven’t seen Blondie.” Varric shook his head as he slung Bianca back into place. “But people have been pouring down the lifts, to get to the Undercity, or the old tunnels, anything to get out of the way.” 

“Right. Well, fuck.” She didn’t want to have to wade through the crush of panicked refugees that would be fleeing Lowtown, already in flames. Was the Hanged Man even safe? Fuck, maybe Darktown was better? She didn’t know. 

“Varric! Varric! Have you seen--” Anders voice was a bellow from the hallway, preceding the man by seconds, and when he burst in he only stuttered a single step when he saw Hawke, hardly slowly as barreled into her, arms flashing around her, one on her waist, the other crossing her back and letting his hand fall on her neck. He fair crushed her to him, his lips against her temple. “Thank the Maker, Cara.” 

Her arms closed around his middle automatically, the crash of relief intense enough to close her throat for a moment. Then she drew back and jabbed him hard in the stomach. “What the fuck were you thinking coming up here? You could have been trampled! Taken! They’d sew your fucking mouth shut you fucking asshole!” 

Anders coughed to get a little air into his lungs, studying her with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips tight with displeasure. “I was at home when things started exploding. Bodhan told me you’d gone off to help Aveline with some Qunari nonsense and Isabela with her relic and when things started catching on fire, it seemed like you’d probably be in the thick of it.” He held her away so he could look down at her, frowning over the soot and tears, but seemed satisfied that none of her organs were falling out, then flashed the smallest smile. “Did you think swanning before the Arishok in robes with a staff on your back was prudent? And tell me, love, what did you say that made him want to blow up the entire bloody city?” 

Her teeth clenched and she shrugged his hands off. Fucking Anders. Trust him to say what everyone was probably already thinking. “Fuck you.” She watched the cold, cutting light go out of his smile and his eyes soften immediately. Damn him. She needed his fucking pity less than the needling guilt that had been clawing up her spine since she’d watched the Arishok order Kirkwall cleansed. “We need to get out there, put a fucking stop to this. The city is burning, Aveline is trying to get to the Keep, and she’s expecting backup.” She flinched as Anders’ hand settled on the small of her back, but he left it there, warm and firm, and when she chanced a glance at him his eyes were dark with worry, the twist of his mouth apologetic. 

“I’m with you, Cara. Even if I think it’s a bit mad to try to save this of all cities.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to headbutt him in the mouth or kiss the corner where it lifted in a sardonic smile. 

“Let’s get this overwith so we can toast your heroic victory, Hawke.” Varric was already moving toward the door, Merrill following behind. 

“It is going to be heroic, isn’t it? Hawke might get to save the Viscount!” 

Fenris plucked at her sleeve and she paused, glancing back at him. “Are you certain you are prepared for this, Hawke?” 

She patted Anders hand away when he tried to draw her on, frowning at him until he followed Varric and Merrill into the hallway. “Prepared to fight?” She grimaced at Fenris, an eyebrow raised.

Fenris’ mouth twisted slightly. “Fair. You are usually prepared for that. But in this case, you are the only person in this city the Arishok has recognized as something approaching… worthy of his notice. It could come down to you. Solely.” His eyes met hers steadily, and there was a wary glint in them that caused the smallest twinge of sadness, but mostly she was relieved they could have this conversation without one of them snarling and the other spitting. 

“Meaning, if I fuck this up, Kirkwall burns?” As little loss as that would be in certain ways, Hawke couldn’t just let everyone die, in fire, or on a Qunari spear, or the slow death of enslavement under the Qun.

“Meaning you must consider whether this city is worth your life.” Well, that was an easier question. Hawke snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“Please, this city is a bronto’s empty ballsack full of spoiled cheese.” The way Fenris’ nose wrinkled at the image made Hawke bare her teeth slightly, grin a little feral, because she needed him to believe her what she said next. “But the people in it don’t deserve this, don’t deserve the Qunari sword and fire any more than they deserve a thin veil, demons bleeding from the walls when it rains, or Meredith fucking Stannard putting her Templar boot on the Viscount’s fucking throat whenever Orsino sneezes. So, whatever it takes, we’ll do.” 

There was a slight sigh from Fenris, his green eyes narrowing as he held hers, searching and she could almost think him worried for her. Finally he nodded, turning and gesturing for her to precede him. 

The streets were worse than when she’d found her way into the Hanged Man. Evidence of those brutally murdered, not always by Qunari blades she thought, was everywhere. Smoldering rubble stood next to blazing houses, and twice she and Anders were able to quell flames that would have spread to the next block.

The air was buzzing with the wild magic of a Saarebas, the third they’d fought trying to get to the Lowtown Markets. “For fuck’s sake, how many slave-mages did they have in the city all this time?” 

Anders’ voice was overshadowed with the reverberations of Justice as he raised his staff, calling a storm of fire down from the sky. “Any at all is too many, Caralyn Hawke.” 

“Right, which is damn helpful while they’re freezing the ass out of my pants, Blondie.” Varric’s bolt caught the Qunari in the eye and it went down screaming and thrashing, magic boiling uncontrolled out of it, and then it went still. All around them they could hear fighting, screaming. Most of it was not the controlled sound of battle. It was slaughter. 

Hawke shook her head, the cold welling up inside her, prickling, sucking helplessness. Maker, how had she got this so wrong? Isabela, the Tome of Koslun, the key all along and nothing that she had done had made a difference. She’d even promised Isabela she could have the fucking relic, they’d use the shitting thing to nail Castillon’s cock to the deck of his ship, and they would settle with the Qunari afterwards. And instead, Isabela had run, scarpered right the fuck off with the thing. 

Hawke pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes as she took a deep breath. They needed to end this. She did. If she could. 

“Hawke?” Anders’ voice had a wary note, and the fact he called her Hawke caused uncomfortable prickles to raise all over her arms. She dropped her hands and met his eyes, eyebrow lifted. “There’s…” He broke off, frowning up the short stairs to the square below the markets. 

“What is it?” She took several steps toward him and suddenly she could hear the sounds of battle. Swords on steel, the clash of weapons on shields. “The Guard?” It could also be Templars, she supposed, and hoped to all that was fucking holy that it wasn’t. 

But Anders was already shaking his head, slowly, brow furrowed as he hefted his staff. “Wardens.” 

“What?” That made no sense. Hawke shook her head, as if that would help. It wasn’t like she had water in her ears. 

“There’s Grey bloody Wardens up there, four, maybe five of them.” Anders wet his lips, then chewed briefly on the lower one. 

There was no way that Alistair was one of them, because that made less sense than Wardens being in Kirkwall at all, that Elissa Cousland would bring him back here after everything, and showing up while the city was fucking burning, right in the middle of a battle with Qunari, it was impossible, totally fucking impossible. That’s what Hawke told herself as she ran up the stairs, Anders calling her name, the clomp of boots and slap of feet as they all hurried after her. 

It was chaos. Nearly a dozen sword wielding Qunari, another handful of elven viddathari, and then a magical vortex of death, a Saarebas that was crackling with angry red light and striding toward the center of all the fighting. Two arrows sprouted from his neck, and Hawke couldn’t hold back, surging forward with her lighting boiling out and chaining between the four nearest Stens. 

The mass splintered under the new attack, and for a while it was nothing but panting, lightning and horror, some of the Qunari falling screaming in the darkest dreams she gave them, battered to death by clods of stone and and earth called by Merrill, while there was the constant high song of Bianca, lower notes of Varric humming to her, and the flashing light that was Fenris. Of course Anders was always near her, and she kept him in the corner of her eye.

She was distracted by the Arvaarad lurching toward Anders, missed whatever it was that caught his eye, caused his face to go still and shocked and then shout, horrified, “ _No!_ ” Hawke’s lightning riddled the Qunari, it went down thrashing, and she turned to see one of the last Stens pinning a Warden against the wall with a long, tooth-bladed spear. He was pierced through the shoulder, in the joint of his armor, and the blood was so dark and copious, and Hawke wouldn’t look at his face, couldn’t. Because she remembered this sensation. This hopeless, wretched bottomless hole in her stomach, and Anders’ face had already told her what she needed, what she feared and wanted, and she _couldn’t_ , not while there was still killing to be done. 

Hawke flung out a wave of force and the Sten was thrown so hard against the far wall that his horns broke off, bones shattered, dead, and aside from the moaning Arvaarad that Fenris was seeing to, the Qunari were down. That didn’t mean they were the only combatants. 

But the rest of the Wardens were winded and battered, bleeding, bent over, but not one of them mattered in that moment, because he was sliding down, one hand trying to brace the long haft of the spear, gasping hoarsely as his knees hit the ground. She couldn’t look into his face, just like she couldn’t the last time she’d fucking seen him, bloody on Varric’s fucking table, with an arrow in his lung. 

Of course it was him. Alistair. Her hands were shaking as she reached blindly toward Anders, where he’d last been standing, because seconds were passing and his blood was still hitting the ground. 

Did he know she was there? Did he care? Had he forgiven her for letting the Wardens take him back? What the fuck was he doing here? She dared a quick, darting look at him, where his eyes were on the cobbles, face pale and growing paler. It was impossible, but it was him, fucking Alistair, right there, and she grabbed Anders coat, pushing him forward even as she steadied him so he wouldn’t slip and fall in all the fucking blood. “Please.” It was all she could muster. 

Anders nodded, hands catching at her face, holding her there for a moment. “It wouldn’t be the first time, hmm?” He smiled, and kissed her gently on the lips, and then knelt next to the man she thought she’d _lost_ and suddenly this had become the most complicated fucking thing in Hawke’s life.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are still on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair POV closing the dreaded cliffhanger. I'm sorry this took so long. Inquisition came out, and then I wrestled this chapter back and forth three million times. 
> 
> Enjoy your angst cake frosted with self-doubt!

White sparks on a dark field that seemed to be snapping in time with the arcing, throbbing pain in Alistair’s shoulder, all cold. That’s what he had. It was dismal. Like climbing into the Frostbacks to search out Haven, with a little of the grinding misery of the Deep Roads between Ostwick and Ansburg thrown in for flavor. 

He could hear a voice, or voices? There was a ringing in his ears and a sudden sharp burst of warmth along his bones that faded leaving him feeling colder than ever. But he could tell he was blinking now, and the white was fading, and a warm hand was pressed to his jawline, thumb running through the substantial scruff grown in there over the last two weeks. 

“You bloody lummox. I’m starting to think you do it on purpose.” The tightly wound complaint in the voice was a mask for worry, and combined with the second, longer pulse of magic, Alistair’s head was swimming. 

When he blinked this time he was able to focus on the side of Anders’ head bent low over his shoulder. He’d been out long enough that his pauldron was off, gambeson cut open and pulled aside so Anders could press his other hand against the wound. What had…? Qunari? He started upright from his slump against the wall, eyes trying to search the scattered bodies of Stens and… Maker he could see two shapes in blue and silver, humans, Wardens. Who? 

“Easy there.” The hand was strong on his chin, tugging it back so that his eyes had to meet Anders’. The amber caught the light as he tried to push Alistair back. “I’ve got you. Don’t go anywhere.” 

“Anders?” Well of course it was Anders, even if he wasn’t sure what he was doing here, but his mouth was behind or his brain was ahead, or all of it seemed muddied. “Where is she?” Of course if anything had happened to Caralyn the mage likely wouldn’t be kneeling next to him, pouring magic into his wounds. 

A nostril flare and a sharp sniff. “It’s lovely to see you too, Alistair, yes you’re welcome, always happy to patch you up you great bloody pincushion. Maker save me.” Anders frowned at him, and there was no mistaking the worry and also… hurt? That wasn’t right. Alistair’s free hand came up, caught the wrist of the hand that had yet to leave his face, and he held it there, leaned into it for just a moment, because Maker, yes, it was good to see him. But… he needed to make sense and the words weren’t coming out properly, or the thoughts wouldn’t line up. 

“Caralyn?” Anders’ eyes softened when he pressed his hand against his face, and then became sadder, dark when Alistair said her name, his voice rasping roughly over it. 

He turned and nodded toward the far side of the square. “She’s just there.” There were small flickers of light as she bent over Varric. “She’s healing the minor wounds. Gives her something to do while she’s fretting that isn’t trying to turn random Grey Wardens inside out.” 

“Elissa is here.” 

“Yes, well, I know that. I didn’t make a point of showing her to Caralyn. I wasn’t really sure what… you and she. It’s complicated, so…” His mouth turned down at the corners as he probed again at the injured shoulder. “Can you make a fist for me?” 

He closed his hand into a fist. It felt a little weak, but all the fingers seemed to be obeying. That wasn’t important right now. He shook his head, his brain starting to fire a little faster. They were here for Caralyn. Topher was in tow, and Nathaniel Howe. Between the two of them, there could be magebane arrows and knives being prepared. He stretched his neck and saw the pocket of Wardens that were left, Elissa, Galen, Howe, Topher, clustered together in deep conference. “She’s here for Caralyn. And Varric.” He lifted his injured hand, plucked at the back of Anders’ coat. “ _Topher_ is with us.” 

“Topher?” The hands on Alistair stilled then dropped away. Anders stood, turning to watch the Wardens as well. “He’s a bloody Warden now?” 

“Um, yes?” Alistair squeezed his eyes shut, trying to decide how he could possibly explain that to Anders. And Caralyn. Maker’s breath, he was a fool. “It’s a long story. The shortest version that doesn’t make me sound like a right ass is this: they’re here to learn about the Deep Roads trip you all took, and she’s maybe gone a little funny about it, and things in general, and ever since I wrote all those abdication letters she’s been rather peeved at me, so she might be… well she can be quite mean, I don’t know that you’ve noticed.” Once the words started they just didn’t stop, did they? 

There was a soft snort from Anders. “Mean. Mean? Yes, I suppose she can be that. Myself, I would have gone with profoundly cruel, but mean serves.” He glanced down at Alistair and then reached a hand to help him up. The world tilted as he straightened. “Steady. You lost a lot of blood. Here.” He began rummaging through his pockets until he found a potion, a bright red-orange vial. “This will help with that.” 

The potion was a brief mouthful of singing fire, and then everything felt somewhat better. He rubbed his hands over his face, rolled his shoulder. Weak, but no longer torn open. When he bent down to catch up his pauldron the return to standing was a little dodgy, and he found himself leaning against the wall again, with spots in front of his eyes. “Sweet Andraste, if this comes to a fight, it is at least going to be gloriously short.” 

“Oh stuff that.” But there were furrows in Anders’ forehead, worry, looking from Caralyn to the Wardens and back. 

It should have been easy. He and Anders approach her, explain the problem, she would shoot him full of lightning in punishment for bringing this down on her head, and he could slink back to Elissa to tell her off before he died. Maybe that wasn’t easy. But there had to be place to avert what happened next. Because somehow, the next moment Topher was leading the knot of Wardens toward Caralyn, a slight hunch to his shoulders as if he was expecting a knife in his back. 

“Maker, no.” Alistair quickened his step, calling out her name with a sharp bark, “Caralyn!” 

Her eyes tugged up to him immediately but they skipped off his face, the muscles in her jaw working. Well she was already angry. Good? Still, it was too late. Just a beat later Topher entered her line of sight. “Hullo, pet. You’re looking rather better than the last time we--” 

The words were drowned in a gurgling scream. Topher fell to the cobbles that were already bloody and scorched like a bag of turnips, shrieking while Caralyn held a hand out toward him. Her teeth were bared; she looked like a cat that was about to be stuffed into a sack, more fear than anger, eyes blank with a panic that made Alistair’s heart twist and break. He’d done this to her, let Topher live, brought him back to Kirkwall. And now she was flooding him with some kind of horror and he was clawing his own eyes out and screaming, spasming, flailing. 

The Wardens stared, Elissa with a cold quirk to her eyebrow, the rest waiting for some signal, and it became so obvious to Alistair in a flash that this was intentional. Topher had been sent at the front of the group to _bait_ Caralyn into an attack. The twist in his stomach tightened up his throat, into his jaw until his teeth hurt he was clenching them so hard. 

Maker, it never ended.

Varric was frowning at Caralyn, Merrill had her hands pressed over her mouth, but her eyebrows were turned in a fierce frown. And Fenris… Fenris was watching her with such intense scrutiny that Alistair was sure he wouldn’t have noticed a Qunari charging in and knocking him over. 

Anders was the one that stepped in front of her, hands gripping her shoulders and gave her a shake. “Cara? Cara. Hawke stop!” She blinked at him, and Alistair could see her eyes grow wide and wet and then she blinked it away, shrugging him off with a snarl. 

“Don’t.” She pushed him away and looked down to where Topher lay still. Galen bent over him, checked his pulse and shook his head slowly.

“You killed him.” The words dropped out of Alistair’s mouth before he could catch them, hushed and slightly appalled, and somehow too loud against the far roar of the city burning. Caralyn turned her head slowly, eyes focusing on him for the first time since he’d seen her. They met his gaze, searching or accusing, it was too brief to tell, and then flinched away. 

“Well, that wasn’t the clean death he could have had, but it’s somehow poetic, isn’t it, Ali?” Elissa gave a chuck of her chin and Howe raised his bow, aiming an arrow at Caralyn’s heart. “Now, you’ve murdered a Grey Warden in cold blood, so you can surrender and I’ll let your friends go. Hm, well not the dwarf. I have some questions for Messere Tethras, but the elves can remove themselves without repercussion… or this can be messier.” She clucked her tongue. “Was that a pun?” Her nose wrinkled as if she’d stepped in something icky, and then shook her head. 

The air around Caralyn seemed to shimmer. “You’re her. You’re fucking her.” 

Elissa tipped her head to the side a hair and lifted one shoulder. “If you say so. Staff down.” 

Alistair expected an explosion. Lighting and flashing blades and blood. There’d be crossbow bolts and rocks erupting from beneath the cobbles of the street. But instead, there was a nearly silent blue-white flash and Elissa was on her back on the ground, Fenris’ hand in her chest, face inches from hers. “I think not.” 

Those measured, gravelly words were followed by a long breath of silence, as even Caralyn, cold eyed and trembling, just stared in shock at where the Warden Commander lay twitching.

“Well, that’s one way to put a pin in that conversation.” Varric chuckled as he shifted Bianca’s sights to Howe. “Put it away, Beaky. You let that arrow go and your Warden Commander finds out what it’s like to live without a literal, as well as a metaphorical heart.” 

“She _killed_ one of our brothers!” Howe turned his gaze to Alistair, disgust wrinkling his nose, twisting his mouth. “One of our own! You were the one who conscripted him instead of executing him. You’re just going to let this stand?” 

That spilled a cold prickle down Alistair’s spine as everyone turned to stare at him. “She had every right.” His voice was low, and he couldn’t find a way to make it seem less horrible. He swallowed hard, trying not to look at her because if he saw her disgust he might demand someone else stab him with a Qunari polearm. From what he could see in his peripheral vision, all of them looked like they might be persuaded. But he did look, and she looked… well. Beautiful. Shattered. He never wanted this for her, never wanted to have to see the pale strain, the tremble at the corner her mouth. 

“Well that makes perfect fucking sense.” Caralyn shook her head slowly, pressing the heel of her hand against her right eye, then lifted her chin with an abrupt snap. “Count of three. All your weapons down, or that talking bronto rectum is going to have a permanent hole in her fucking chest.” 

Anders reached out for her again, a hand ghosting over the back of her neck, and again there was something different there. Alistair looked away, not sure what the heat in his chest meant, the sudden flush that wasn’t exactly anger when Anders murmured, “Cara, love, don’t…” 

“Not now, Anders.” 

“Cara--” 

“I said, not fucking now!” The look she shot him was ragged, trying to hide behind fury. Alistair felt his stomach twist and fall and he wanted to touch her, close his arms around her, but she wouldn’t even look at him, her eyes jumping away any time they came close to brushing his face. Howe’s bow lowered, Galen sheathed his blades, and was it really only the four- no three of them left? How did Elissa think she would win this fight even if Fenris hadn’t threatened to pull her heart out of her chest? “Ease up, Fenris, I have something to say to her and I want to make sure she hears me.” 

The hand backed out of Elissa’s chest, just the fingertips ghosting through the armor, the elf’s other clawed gauntlet wrapped around her neck. She drew in a long, shuddering breath, eyes squeezing closed for a moment before opening to stare up at Fenris and then shift when Caralyn crouched next to her. Alistair had never seen that much fear in Elissa’s face before, not facing their first ogre on the top of the Tower of Ishal, not finding out there were no other Wardens left, not even looking at the Archdemon the first time in the flesh, miles beneath the earth in the Deep Roads. He saw her believe for the first time maybe ever, that she could die. 

“Okay. Now. Am I going to fucking kill you, Commander Cousland? That fucking slime died because he laid hands on me and I promised him I would end him.” Caralyn’s voice came out a low hiss, but he could hear the quaver to it when she spoke of Topher. He had to look away for a moment, mouth sour with bile and guilt. “Actually, I told him I was going to feed him his filthy fucking fingers, but that isn’t really something I can do right now because my cocking city is burning down. That and he probably is full choking to death on his own scabby shit-licking tongue.” She leaned closer and if she could’ve, Alistair would have sworn Elissa would have squirmed away. “You. You get to live only if you promise to leave Kirkwall, and stay out of my fucking life.” 

“You can’t murder the Commander of the Grey--” Fenris’ fingers flexed and Elissa broke off in a sputtering whimper. 

“Who says I murdered you?” Caralyn’s laughter was harsh, brief. “With the Qunari everywhere, the whole city is some fucking… abattoir. They find your body ripped right in half with your men in pieces all around you? How does that ever come back to me?” She shifted a little, a glance over her shoulder at Anders, and Alistair knew she could see him standing where he was, but she didn’t _look_ at him. Still he could see the apology in her eyes. She was sorry?

“So why not do it then?” Caralyn’s eyes moved back to Elissa when she spoke. 

“Ah. Well, you’ve ruined lives, hurt good men, got people killed who didn’t deserve to die, but I wouldn’t have shit if it weren’t for you and your wrongheaded fuckups.” Alistair couldn’t see her eyes, only the way her mouth twisted in a grimace. “So, you’re going to swear to the Maker and the fucking Queen of Ferelden that you are done shitting in my shoe, you get to live.” 

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose and then looked at Alistair, eyebrows lifted in disbelief. Alistair didn’t know. It was better, wasn’t it, than Caralyn killing three more people that she didn’t have to… Maker. Did she truly feel some kind of debt to Elissa for giving her Anders? Himself? Hadn’t their own mistakes led them, giant lumps of trouble, to her doorstep? 

“And Alistair?” When Elissa said his name Caralyn flinched. 

The silence stretched, and Alistair held his breath. If she didn’t want him here he would go, but not back to the Wardens, not with Elissa, not after all this. And how could she want him nearby? It was obvious she was closer to Anders, and now she knew how he had wronged her.

“He gets to do whatever he wants. You stay the fuck out of it.” Caralyn’s throat was thick, the words sounding like she was choking on them. 

Alistair ran his hand over his face, trying to push the grimace back, to stop feeling like a selfish lovelorn git. It wasn’t the time. He watched the line of her shoulders, tense and coved. 

Howe was the one to protest. “Commander, the Landsmeet…” 

“He’s already weaseled out of that, Nathaniel, with those damn letters.” Elissa managed a soft bark of a laugh that turned to a wheeze as Fenris let out a grunt of disgust. 

“See, easy fucking choice, right?” Caralyn stood up, hands balled into fists at her hips. Alistair could see the occasional skitter of lightning across her knuckles

“Fine. Call your elf to heel and I’ll go.” 

“Andraste’s ass, she doesn’t want to live does she?” Varric’s gravelly chuckle was a little forced as he shifted Bianca’s stock in the crook of his arm. 

“No, Varric, I’d say she doesn’t. Is she touched? She seems a bit confused about all of this. Hawke is being rather patient, isn’t she?” Merrill’s own staff was planted next to her, hand gripping it firmly, the set of her mouth much sterner than the lilt in her words. 

They were, all of them, nearly vibrating with tension, but whether it was worry that another fight would break out and the Wardens would have to be killed, or perhaps more rationally that if Elissa were sent on her way she would only circle back around, Alistair couldn’t tell. 

“You had better be careful, or Fenris will decide to kill you no matter what kind of deal we’ve made, Commander. He’s his own fucking man.” The lyrium glow around Fenris’ hand grew brighter and Elissa let out a sharp bleat of pain. 

“I swear, on the Maker and the Fereldan throne and the shades of my parents, I’ll leave Kirkwall and not return.” 

And like that Fenris released Elissa, stood and stalked away. Caralyn watched her push up to a seated position. “Not so fucking difficult, hm?” 

Elissa’s hand rubbed her chest while Howe and Galen moved to help her up, but it was like she’d ceased to exist for Caralyn Hawke, who turned her back and gestured to the others to follow. She was just walking away. Alistair stood there, hands limp at his sides, watching them go. She hadn’t looked at him, and Maker, he was a fool. 

“Come on, we’ve got to go pull Aveline’s ass out of the fucking fire at the Keep.” He watched Anders move up next to her, hand moving to touch her cheek. She dropped her face away from the brush of his fingers. “Don’t. We have to…” She took a sharp breath, finally looked _at_ Alistair and frowned. “Are you with us or not?” 

He stared at her, watched as she scowled down at his feet and then turned, stalking away. Was he supposed to come? What did that mean? He looked to Anders who rolled slightly widened eyes and yes, now Alistair was flushing. Anders nodded after Caralyn and turned to follow, leaving Alistair to hurry after. 

It was an idiot thing to leave Elissa Cousland and Nathaniel Howe at their backs, perhaps, but somehow it didn’t come to disaster. He glanced once over his shoulder, saw the storm in those brown eyes, and amended that to yet. It wasn’t a disaster _yet_. 

When he turned back, watching Caralyn’s back again, his breath caught. He was actually here. 

He scrubbed his hand into his hair, pulling at it briefly and then swallowed. He had to tell her _something_ or she would keep walking and maybe she wouldn’t even realize he was following. 

“Caralyn, wait.” It was hard for him to keep his breath, the wound having taken more of his strength than he’d like. The small group of her friends kept on when she dropped a step, except for Anders who stayed with her, though he was barely in arms reach. 

He swallowed the sourness in his mouth as she half-turned toward him, eyes fixed on the blood still wet and red on his side. He closed the distance, one step, and reached his hand up to touch her chin, lifting it just a hair so he could see her face. Her eyes closed, mouth twisted in a grimace that looked like pain, but she didn’t flinch away from it, didn’t try to strike him dead for daring. There was a flutter that felt suspiciously like hope in his chest. 

“I might have just spent two weeks in the Deep Roads but I didn’t think I smelled that bad.” He brushed his thumb under her lower lip, felt it tremble. Of course he probably did smell exactly that bad. “Caralyn?” 

Her whole face twisted and she shuddered. “Fucking void. I can’t.” 

“You can’t? Can’t what? Look at me?”

“No. Why-- fuck. Fuck you. Fuck you for-- No! You know fucking what, no. I’m not admitting you’re here. So fuck off.” The way she bit the words as she said them, her full mouth warring to keep control of them, made him want to kiss her. Maybe he would have if she hadn’t looked like she was being stabbed by his presence. 

He glanced toward Anders, whose eyes were wide, and he shook his head. No help there. 

“That’s not exactly what I was hoping for.” 

“Well, fuck you. And fuck hope. You’re here, you’re real, and all of a sudden everything is harder.” Her blue eyes finally cracked open to glare up at him. “If I admit that this is true, then you’re just one more thing I get to lose when I make the wrong fucking choice again. So fuck you.” 

That was not what he’d expected. He’d expected fury, rejection, after she found out it was his fault that the Wardens were in Kirkwall, that Topher had been conscripted by him. Her skin was so warm, and soft, and she had the darkest circles under her eyes. He flicked another glance at Anders, trying not to frown in disapproval, but he did. A little. When he settled his eyes back on her, some kind of trembling smile on his lips that he tried to steady so he didn’t look like an idiot, he knew it was coming out all lopsided, because he _was_ an idiot. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re happy to see me or not.” Her hand lifted, rested on his chest plate, fingers digging into the gryphon blazoned there. He covered it with his free hand, holding it tightly in place, and it felt like his heart was beating again. 

“Not sure yet. Guess I’ll figure that shit out after we sort this Qunari cockup. If we all manage to live through it.” The way her voice dropped at the end was worrying. She turned away from him, looking at Anders and he watched the brief spasm that crossed her face. “He still looks like he’s about to fall on his ass, Anders. Take care of him, fill him in on the great Isabela fuckup of the week, and I’ll try to get us up to the Keep in the usual number of pieces.” 

The hand on his chest shoved lightly, pushing off as she stomped away to where Varric, Fenris, and Merrill were all pretending not to watch. Well except for Varric; the dwarf was blatantly watching, a slight purse to his lips, eyes avid, probably taking bloody notes in his head. 

Alistair followed. How could he not? He blinked when Anders fell in step with him instead of hovering after her though, feeling goosebumps as more healing magic brushed him. 

They walked in silence, Alistair clumsily buckling his armor back into place as they went, for all of twenty paces before Anders said airily, “You’re welcome, by the way, for swooping in and saving you again.” 

Alistair sighed softly and stopped, catching Anders by the arm and squeezing lightly. Maker those eyes. He’d forgotten the depth of them, the way they shown with that intensity when they studied you, always with an edge that could turn cold or sharp so quickly. “Anders. Thank you. And it’s good to see you, and yes, I’m also quite alive and not executed. Or imprisoned! I’d be happy to tell you all about it later after Caralyn is done killing things and we’ve all had a bath.” 

The corners of Anders’ mouth twitched and he nudged Alistair back to a steady forward pace. “ _All_ of us. _A_ bath. Interesting.” 

The heat that flushed in Alistair’s ears made him a little lightheaded after all that blood he’d recently shed and he cleared his throat, missing a step. Anders caught his arm in one hand, the other steadying him at the waist until he wasn’t in danger of falling on his face. He dropped them back to his sides, fingers giving a smoothing flick to his coat. 

“Good to see you’re still…” Anders made a vague gesture towards him, though his eyes were fixed forward on Caralyn’s back. “Well. More to the point. Do you think Elissa is really going to sod off like Cara seems to think one simple promise guarantees?” 

What was he still? Besides a stumbling fool? And here he thought he might have gotten a handle on just how hard he’d blush when Anders cast that sly smile at him, all arched eyebrows and slight pout to his smirk. He was still confused, that was it. It was still all very confusing. He’d wanted more than anything to be back here with them, and now? What did that mean? 

Alistair looked down at his hands, frowning as he considered the next question. Would Elissa actually leave Kirkwall that easily? If she did, was that the end of it? “I suppose it’s possible. Much like it’s possible that the Maker will come back if the Chant is heard in all corners of Thedas…” He rolled his shoulder, testing the twinge in the newly knitted sinews and muscles, measuring himself against that fight. “Are you worried about her?” He nodded up toward Caralyn. If she was backed into a corner he had no doubt she would start everything short of a war with the Grey Wardens, and it was more than just his own fate at stake. Elissa had interests in Varric’s brother, the Deep Roads expedition they had funded, and whatever they found there. 

“Among other things.” The look that Anders shot him was a surprise. There was something worried, and sad, tender, but so defeated in the curve of his lips and the dip of his eyebrows. 

“Anders, I--” There was a note of frustration he couldn’t quite keep out of his voice, and he shook his head sharply. “I know that things have probably changed since Ostwick and I’m not--”

“It isn’t the time.” 

“But there isn’t--” 

“No.” Anders pulled his staff off his back, and blue light sprang up around his hands as they turned the corner and saw Fenris rushing into a fresh squad of Qunari. “It really isn’t the time.” 

Alistair drew a steadying breath, armed himself and scraped together the hope that there would be time later to have this conversation. He watched Caralyn throw lightning with a wild cry, eyes alight, saw the way it reflected in Anders’ as he tracked her into the fray, face filled with worry and utter devotion. 

He swallowed back the lump that formed in his chest. It had to wait until after.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things continue to burn and Anders tries to keep up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders POV! Chapter 40! So many things! 
> 
> The next chapter will be a bit unconventional, and then we start to get back to the kissing bits. Also probably some angst. ;)

The trouble with following a storm masquerading as a person around, Anders had found, was keeping up with it. Her. Hawke. _Loving _her only made it that much greater of an imperative to stay steady at her side, and somehow it also made it a lot bloody harder.__

__It might have something to do with how she always seemed to find ways to run… well if not away, at least forward. Faster. It wasn’t an escape, it was movement, elemental and undeniable and Maker save them all when she began to course with all the ear-popping force of a hot-weather squall._ _

__Like now, rushing headlong into what amounted to a war with the entire Qun? That was hard to keep up with. He could barely keep her from bleeding to death on an average day of hunting bandits and giant spiders (the woman was impossible in her recklessness) and now she had to go picking a fight with an entire ideology?_ _

__Andraste’s ass, she was responsible for at least as many of the silver hairs that had begun to thread with the blond on Anders’ head as Justice was._ _

__Of course if it were only a matter of keeping up that would be one thing, but how about just keeping her, even simply some part of her? He swallowed as he kept his eyes trained on her back, trying not to look too often from the corner of his eyes at Alistair’s profile._ _

__Keep up, keep healing, keep his arms out ready to catch her. Maybe not literally, but that’s what it felt like. Watch her to see if she’d falter, wait for her to meet his eyes, to smile, (well scowl really) to squeeze his wrist. But she was always striding ahead, not looking back. Not at him._ _

__But not at Alistair either._ _

__It wasn’t as if Anders could have ever expected a joyful clinging reunion between the two of them. He’d got to do rather more clinging while he was making sure the bloody lummox didn’t die._ _

__Of course, Cara didn’t seem capable of uncomplicated emotions of any sort, happiness least of all. The fact that Alistair had returned to them in the company of the man who had kidnapped and poisoned her, the man he was certain she still had nightmares about, having chosen to conscript him? Anders wasn’t sure what he felt about that, beyond confusion and worry. Cara had to be furious. But she wasn’t confronting him. The way she was refusing to look at either of them only made Anders’ heart sink lower and lower until it was in danger of falling out of his ass. He ran a hand over his forehead, pushing loose strands of hair out of his face, then he did glance to the side._ _

__Alistair’s color was better, the rejuvenation potion having helped a great deal, no longer looking ashen under his beard. The beard was a surprise, scruffy and untrimmed but it made him look older and rather… hmm. Anders shook his head, this time purely at himself. He needed to bloody focus and not get a belly full of adolescent flutters thinking about the way that surprising beard had felt under his fingers while he was busy reattaching Alistair’s arm._ _

__Maker save him from heroic, reckless idiots._ _

__Of course, there were also the moments those same heroic idiots got to save him. From Qunari mages and the Templars that killed them._ _

__The sudden return of his vision after whatever it was the Saarebas had done, making his whole head feel like it was about to burst, was followed by the sudden angry pulse of Justice pushing against the egg-shell of Anders’ control before he’d even consciously acknowledged that the square held Templars, and among those Templars was Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard and that her hand was on Hawke, pulling her to her feet, and Cara was shedding sparks in her hair, face contorted into something that boded ill for everyone._ _

__Later Anders was sure that if two things hadn’t happened just then there would have been a smoking crater where the square once stood. Cara would have lashed out at Meredith, Meredith would have struck down Hawke, and Justice would have burned them all to a cinder._ _

__Instead, Carver stepped up next to Meredith, a stiff, “Sister,” on his lips in greeting, and at the same moment Alistair stepped in front of Anders, cutting off his view of the Templars surrounding Hawke._ _

__“Please, please stop glowing please. There are entirely too many people glowing and in my experience when you all start doing that things get a bit hairy and I feel like maybe there’s plenty of hair already.” Alistair’s voice was brittle with all the forced lightness. “Even if the Qunari here are mostly bald. Still.”_ _

__He could have been speaking to Anders or Cara, a whispered plea for both of them to control the sharp crackle of magic that was unmistakable to absolutely everyone in the square, except perhaps Varric. The silver and blue of his Warden armor, the embossed gryphon on his pauldron caught Anders’ gaze, held it, and despite everything, all the years and bitterness, he felt Justice quiet. It was a reminder of a time when they had been separate, and could remember themselves separately, not in constant strife and struggle with the harsh press of the Fade under his skin. It receded as Justice stilled and he heard the breath of relief that Alistair took._ _

__With the ringing in his ears faded, Anders could hear Varric’s sardonic admonishment to Fenris to put the flash away, Merrill’s bubbling greeting to Carver, and the patronizing threat implicit in Meredith’s tone as she recognized Hawke._ _

__Not that Cara was hiding. Anders could feel the magic bleeding off of her. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness he could see just how that sensation looked, violet light trailing over her skin, under his hands._ _

__“She isn’t even trying to hide.” He reopened his eyes but didn’t look past Alistair, not yet, afraid to stir Justice back to the surface._ _

__“Actually, I think she _is_ hiding something.” Alistair’s shoulders shifted and his head turned far enough that Anders could see the way the hair over his chin was almost ginger compared to the sandier scruff on his upper lip. _ _

__He meant Anders. Hawke was hiding him. She was standing there, bold as balls, practically screaming _apostate_ in the bloody Knight-Commander’s face so that no one would notice the abomination standing twenty feet away. _ _

__Maker’s breath. He closed his eyes, pushing harder against the resurgence of Justice’s roiling presence. He had to hold onto his control, keep from being recognized for what he was by the Templars: the abomination that had killed so many of their fellows._ _

__There’d been more than he’d cared to count in the tunnels beneath the Gallows the night he had nearly murdered Ella. Hawke had kept her from harm, killed Alrik, and saved Anders’ sanity, or soul, certainly his life._ _

__There had been nearly a score he’d killed in the Chantry itself when he had failed to rescue Karl._ _

__And the half dozen or more the night he and Justice joined. That memory caused Justice to twist against the guilt, pull back even farther, leaving Anders to taste copper between his teeth alone, eyes fixed sightlessly on Alistair’s broad back as Hawke exposed her throat and dared Meredith to put her boot on it._ _

__And he cowered. Coward. He thought those words together until they fused. His fear. It always came back to that fear. Fear of the power that the Templars had over every mage; fear that had twisted Justice and endangered Hawke._ _

__He didn’t deserve Alistair as his shield._ _

__He’d never deserved to know what Cara tasted like, the moments when she slept, her breath soft on his neck, the way she twisted and bucked when he tried to pull her closer, but clung tighter when he opened his hands._ _

__He couldn’t clutch at her, try to keep up, try to keep her. He lifted a hand, letting his fingertips ghost over the edge of Alistair’s gryphon shoulderguard. He’d never deserved any of it, and fool that he was, he certainly couldn’t ask for _more_. _ _

__More. When had Anders’ problem become more? More air, more light, more sky? He remembered always wanting that. But it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t _sane_ for a mage, an apostate to want to tangle his heart with someone else. But it’s just what he’d done. Idiot. Doubly so as he tried to forget that one reckless kiss goodbye. _ _

__He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as Justice coiled and lashed like the tail of an unhappy cat, felt distantly. The work should be all that mattered, freedom for mages. Should be, and wasn’t._ _

__He wasn’t supposed to want it for himself. He was there for her, to hold Caralyn Hawke, love her as much as she’d let him, but it wasn’t for him. His place was borrowed and he’d known that, even when it seemed as if they’d never see Alistair again._ _

__“Anders?” Cara’s voice quiet, a little roughened, called his name and he blinked hard, chin jerking up. Everyone was staring at him, Alistair several yards away looking worried and awkward now that he was left with Varric and Merrill and Fenris of all people. He was also watching Cara while trying not to stare and somebody should have told him to give it up for a bad job and just look at her because he would probably call less attention to himself that way, the yearning in those hazel eyes._ _

__“Hmm?” Anders turned his gaze to her, noting the shadows of fatigue under her eyes, trying not to sigh or fret. She hated that almost as much as he hated seeing her worn so thin._ _

__Instead he glanced around, hair on the back of his neck prickling, looking over the square. The Templars were gone. He’d been so lost forcing Justice back and convincing himself he was ready to let her go because it was right, he’d missed their departure. “You have a nice catch up with your brother the ass?” He almost winced to hear himself, and the careful, neutral expression she had been wearing jerked down into a sour frown._ _

__“Yeah, great to talk to the fucking twat in front of the fucking Knight-Commander and hope I wouldn’t have to try to kill twelve Templars if he suddenly pointed at you and started shouting, ‘He’s possessed, the Healer of Darktown, an abomination, let’s kill him!’ Really fucking brilliant, thanks for asking.” She snorted, glancing away toward the others, but he saw her watch him from the corner of her eyes, worried, wary. Of course, it wasn’t the dozen Templars that worried her. It was the thought of having to fight her brother._ _

__“But you may as well have marched into the Gallows and hand delivered a note that says, ‘I’m an apostate, please arrest me,’ Hawke.” He could taste that copper on the back of his teeth again and he tried not to shudder at the thought. They would never have her._ _

__“Oh please, she knew my name. They all fucking know my name. If the bribes are over and the borrowed time I’ve been living on in this shitty fucking city is over, then that’s what will happen.” He opened his mouth to protest, to demand she explain but she was glaring up at him again, and she continued before he could get a word out. “Not like it’ll matter if we both get our mouths sewn shut by the fucking Arishok. Let’s go.”_ _

__She reached out a hand, to pluck at his coat or give him a nudge, or maybe even to take his wrist and drag him along, he couldn’t tell. He just knew that if she touched him he wouldn’t be able to let her go, he’d keep wanting this impossible thing to remain and… he flinched back. She blinked, her face going still for a moment, and then she nodded. The resignation in her features as she stomped back toward the others made him stare after her. What was that? Exhaustion? Agreement? He couldn’t tell, and he trailed after her twitching under his coat with anxiety._ _

__They were getting close to the Viscount’s Keep, the screams of the dying having faded behind them. Someone - Fenris? - had said that the Qunari would be rounding up the important people and herding them to the Keep instead of killing them. Even in a system that claimed to give everyone a place, the rich and pampered, the powerful were given preference. Of course._ _

__“You alright there, Blondie?” Varric had dropped back to Anders’ side without him noticing, and he’d plainly been muttering to himself as they walked._ _

__“That probably depends on the scale of good, bad, or actively on fire, that we’re using.” One more set of stairs and then they’d be there, and what would happen then? Was there a plan he hadn’t heard? Get to the Keep and help Aveline sounded fine, but what if there were hundreds of Qunari waiting for them?_ _

__Anders frowned up at Hawke who was currently arguing, a snarl on her face with… First Enchanter Orsino? Anders rubbed a hand over his eyes and then shook his head to clear it. He wasn’t keeping up, that was certain. Magic overextended, mentally exhausted struggling with Justice, every part of his heart felt like it was being torn to shreds, and the lingering fear that whatever Elissa Cousland had promised, she was only going to ruin Cara’s life once she’d had ten minutes to come up with a new plan._ _

__Varric’s chuckle was half-hearted. “Well, everything is pretty much on fire, and that seems to be the good bits.”_ _

__“Andraste’s ass, Varric, what do you want me to say? Everything’s fine, Hawke is going to save the day?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because she will, you know? She absolutely will.” He believed that. He was just worried that she wouldn’t save herself along with the day._ _

__“Hey, I’m with you. But you, how are _you_ doing with all this?” The dwarf’s broad hand gestured vaguely ahead of them where Alistair was standing all straight and handsome, looking properly heroic, like he _could_ catch Cara if she fell. _ _

__“Fine. Of course, it’s fine. I’m happy to see the big idiot, and he’s good for her.” Anders grimaced._ _

__“Ah.” Varric’s expression was both knowing and unimpressed._ _

__“What’s that mean, ah?” Anders thought he should feel embarrassed. Maybe. He couldn’t tell. Everything about being with Hawke was so intense, so sudden, and they’d only had those few weeks to find how they fit, or rather how he fit for her, and now that place wasn’t his anymore. He chewed on his lower lip, thinking about the mad impulse to kiss Alistair goodbye and wondering if he’d get to do the same with Cara._ _

__Varric sighed before answering. “Look, just remember that when she was falling apart the last few months that you were the one who put her back together.”_ _

__“Well, he wasn’t here.” There was a defensive crackle in Anders’ voice. Why was Varric trying to make this harder? Even the dwarf had to see that he wasn’t any good for her, not in the long run._ _

__“Nope. Not buying it, Blondie.” Varric shook his head and folded his arms, though he kept his eyes trained toward Hawke, waiting for the signal that it was time to… do whatever it was they were waiting to do. Anders needed to focus. He knew that. The clearing of Varric’s throat brought him back to the conversation at hand. “You were the one who was in her house after Leandra died. You’ve been picking her up and keeping her moving for years now.”_ _

__Which wasn’t the same at all as getting to curl around her at night, kiss the back of her neck, get an elbow in the ribs when his whiskers tickled too much. He struggled to swallow the knot in his throat. “And it wasn’t until she lost him that she even looked at me sideways.”_ _

__Varric’s laugh was not amused, or kind. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard you say, and I’ve heard some of the shit you’ve said to Daisy.”_ _

__“Varric--”_ _

__“Nah, you know what, you want to doom and gloom all over yourself when she’s about to do something big, something she’s going to need you for? That’s your business, but Maker’s stones, don’t act like she isn’t crazy about you.” Varric reached over and clapped Anders on the shoulder, a warm, heavy weight that made this all feel more real for a moment._ _

__“And what about Alistair?”_ _

__Varric shrugged. “Hey what you all get up to is your business.”_ _

__Anders rubbed his forehead. Of course. Of course the dwarf would force him to have this conversation and then claim he didn’t know anything about anything relevant._ _

__“Look, I don’t know shit about making it work on the ground, Blondie. I know about stories, and some of those have great love, doomed love, stupid, reckless, idiot love. Hawke’s story? I’m hoping that she finds some of the good stuff. That hopefully ends with her happy, you happy, and sure throw the new guy in there, why not, if that makes her happy.” Varric shifted his feet, rolling his shoulders and then looked down at the ground. “Shit, I don’t know. Just, don’t do anything that means I have to go fishing her out of dockside dives. She gets too drunk and I can’t carry her by myself.”_ _

__The memory of just how bad Hawke smelled when Varric and Isabela had deposited her in his clinic, and how he’d kissed her for the first time the next day… it tore a soft laugh that felt more like a sob from Anders._ _

__“And hey, the more complicated it is the better my sales!” He cast a significant glance between Anders and where Cara and Alistair were standing, wearing a half-smile. “I’d be an idiot to turn that hook down. And with how confused he looks at you after you get your hands all over him? That’s top-shelf complicated.” His grin faded and he shook his head, looking rueful, and a little sad. “Rivaini is going to be pissed she skipped town on this.”_ _

__Anders shook his head slowly, letting out a long sigh to loosen the tightness in his chest that knotted closer and higher as he listened to Varric. Something doubly impossible, complicated, unconventional to the extreme. Andraste’s ass, Hawke was a Hightown noble, and to think about Isabela’s fantasies (and it was certainly only Isabela who had such fantasies) about the three of them was mad, and it was hard to swallow around the lump in his throat the thought even put there._ _

__He watched Cara finish her shouting, watched Alistair watch her with a longing he could almost taste, and then blinked when the man turned his eyes toward Anders and blushed. The quirk that lifted the corners of Anders’ mouth felt strange and it should have felt wrong._ _

__It didn’t, but it should have. Anders shook the grin away, the flush that followed, all thoughts of Alistair’s beard or his mouth against his, or against Hawke’s, or… damn that dwarf to the void for filling his head with nothing but nonsense when he needed to stay focused. Focused on keeping up, keeping close, and keeping his arms out to catch her._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, thank you all so much for hanging with me. It's been nearly a year since I started writing this story and it constantly astonishes me people are still reading. 
> 
> All the love, darlings.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke battles the Arishok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different with Varric POV, Merrill POV, and something completely separate in the middle. I was having a hard time just skipping the whole fight, but I also didn't want to spend a lot of time on it, so here we are. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. <3

They will write songs about this. The way Caralyn Hawke dueled the Arishok.

It’ll be scrub bards and broadsheet minstrels, at first. Only second and third hand accounts, nobody here to tell the tale properly, except for Varric. 

They will write songs, and it’s up to him that the story they hear, the story they write is the right one. 

He’s spent years now watching Hawke, filing away certain details, letting others go. He keeps her growling and bitching, the way she looks at you like she’s ready to bite. He lets go the way her shoulders curve in just a little when she thinks no one is looking, all the weight of the shit she’s seen, the shit she’s done, wearing her down a little further. 

It’s been better, it’s been worse, just like anything really. Varric tries to be a realist in life, but Hawke isn’t just real life. She’s also bigger, broader, louder, brighter. There’s a reason he writes about her. 

And as scary as it is to see his friend, his pretty, human, lighting-shooting friend, who barely comes up to the Arishok’s elbow stare the Qunari bruiser down, it’s also going to make a pretty great story. 

If she lives. 

“Damn it, Hawke, you better live.” He ignores the glances his muttering gets him, the rest of her friends clustered behind the ranks of the Arishok’s guard that hold back the crowd. He knows they’re all wound as tightly as him, and later he’ll be able to ask them what they were thinking, sift through their lies that they weren’t worried, that they knew Hawke would save Kirkwall, because she’s a hero and that’s what heroes do. 

If she lives. 

Varric doesn’t want to think about the other possibility, that Hawke dies, and the Qun buries Kirkwall in ash and bones. He’s got keys, deeds, letters of credit for banking houses in every city in the Free Marches, half of Antiva, and Ferelden. Contingencies. When she told him, “You take care of them, dwarf,” head bowed low towards him, throat thick, all he wanted to see was a little of her bravado, the balls-out shit she used to be so famous for. Instead what’s she give him? Fatalism. 

Nugshit. 

If she dies the story is a tragedy, and Varric isn’t sure that Anders will leave anyone left alive in the Keep to tell the tale. Maybe, _maybe_ because New Guy has one of his big paws clenching the back of Blondie’s coat, fingers in the neck hole, physically holding him back… Maybe. Varric still isn’t sure what’s going on there, but he knows that they propped each other up a lot during the long days when Hawke was missing, so maybe…

But even if they live, it isn’t a story Varric wants to write. 

If she dies, and they live, then the story has to be about more than the way her eyes were glassy and her hands cold, and even when she looked at Isabela like she was a Maker-damned ghost fallen straight out of the Fade, there hadn’t been a spark of anger in her eyes. How she refused to let either of the blond idiots that were in love with her touch her. How she made Varric promise to take care of them, whatever that meant. 

He’ll have to make it mean something, her sacrifice for the city that hates her, that took from her at every turn. “Shit, Hawke, you can’t do this to me. I’m no good at all this noble martyr crap.” He doesn’t turn his head away from where Hawke is spitting blood on the floor, levering herself up where the Arishok’s last blow with the pommel of his blade busted her lip, even as he feels Daisy lace her fingers with his and squeeze hard. 

But if she lives, he’ll get to lie. Lie about the swagger, the taunting, the laughter. He’ll lie so hard and so long that the nobles will believe that’s what they saw before a week is out. 

He’ll lie hard enough that even Hawke believes it, that she was… shit. Glorious? Nah. He watches the lightning that coils and builds, the way she almost burns a hole in your eyesight with the violet light. Luminous. He’s going to call Hawke luminous and she’s going to hate it. He grins as the lightning discharges and the Arishok staggers, and slows. 

But then the big grey hulk shakes it off, horns tossing, and the sword in his left hand surges forward, right through her middle, and Varric can’t even tell who screams when that blade comes out her back, angled up. She slumps toward the monster holding it. Maybe they all scream? Maybe nobody does. Hawke doesn’t, he knows that. Her eyelashes flutter like she’s falling asleep.

That’s the thing about writing a story about a hero. Heroes usually die in the end. 

*** *** ***

“Wake up, firefly. It snowed last night.” The gruff, warm voice prods Caralyn out of sleep and she sits up, blinking in the watery gray light and rubbing her eyes. 

“Papa?” The silhouette of her father is leaning in the doorway, backlit by brighter yellow lamplight. Bethany is a warm lump tucked against her hip and in the low trundle under the window Carver is snoring softly. 

“Come on, Cara. I want to show you something new today. Hurry, before the snow melts.” Her father’s heavy boots clomp back into the main room of their tiny house.

That causes Caralyn to bound out of bed, rushing to wash her face and scrub her teeth, before wriggling out of her long woolen night shirt and into two layers of clothes and three pairs of socks. She hates being cold, and usually doesn’t find herself drawn to play in the snow the way Carver and Bethany are with squeals and red cheeks. Besides she’s eleven now, and they’re still practically babies at nine, and if she wants to stay inside reading with her father, or helping him with poultices and tinctures, is that so terrible? She’s being useful. They’re just in the way. 

But if her father is teaching her something new today, and that means a tromp through the snow, she will happily tromp. Her magic swells and tingles inside her in excitement, and she holds fiercely against it sparking out of her, arcing in skitters along her skin. It’s her most important lesson, so that no one can see just by looking at her what she is. 

When she exits the bedroom she shares with the twins her mother is in the corner of the main room that serves as the kitchen, laundry, and stillroom. She is kneading bread dough, her dark hair swept up in a kerchief and flour smudged on her nose. Her lips are compressed into a thin line of intense concentration. She startles when Caralyn’s father steps up behind her and encircles his arms around her waist, before laughing and resting her head back against his shoulder for a moment.

They look so close, and Caralyn feels like she shouldn’t watch, that this is only for them and is a window into a world where she doesn’t exist. Before she was born there was her mother, and her father, and this sweet laughter and kisses on the nape of her mother’s neck. Beneath the flush, the blurry feeling in her middle, there is an unaccountable wretched sadness, and she looks down expecting to see a hole in her middle because no one could feel that way without having had their heart cut out. 

“Ready, bug?” Caralyn’s chin jerks back up and she grins, bouncing up on her toes and nods. “Well, get your boots and your coat.” There is a laughing glint in her father’s eyes that almost erases the worry that is always present when he looks at her, and feeling that familiar tingle of magic and elation she hurries to comply. 

The woods are nearly silent in the early light, everything buried in an even layer of white. The only noises are the occasional soft thump of snow falling from boughs high in the trees and the crunching and huffing of Caralyn and her father as they tromp. The snow is only four or five inches deep, but she stays in her father’s tracks, following him closely with her hands tucked into her armpits, arms folded across her chest. 

It takes them an hour to reach the spring fed stream, and by then Caralyn is hungry, and too hot, sweaty, and too cold all at the same time. Her legs burn from the extra effort of keeping her footing in the snow and her bottom is wet where she fell twice. Still, she keeps her tongue pinched between her teeth to prevent herself from complaining. Her father always told her impatience and entitlement were two of a mage’s worst friends. When she asked a year or so ago what entitlement meant he had laughed softly and said, “You know when there is one biscuit left over and Carver wants it?” She’d nodded with a wry scrunch to her nose. “And he pouts when he doesn’t get it?” She’d grinned at that. “Because?” 

“Because he thinks he deserves it more than anybody else for no reason.” Her words were in a low, chagrined mutter, fully expecting her father to chastise her for being unkind about her younger brother. Her mother would have glared and gasped and said her name in that pitchy way that made Caralyn’s teeth hurt. 

“That’s right, Cara. That’s entitlement.” 

So, no complaints, no impatience. No believing that she deserves anything special to come to her without hard work. 

Her booted feet are small next to her fathers, but she stands next to him with a similar posture. He always looks so… rooted when he stands like that, feet apart, shoulders straight. He told her it was important to build a house on a solid foundation, which always seemed odd because none of the ramshackle little cottages her family wound up in were on any kind of foundation. Most of them had packed dirt floors, which her mother hates silently, in a kind fiction of poorly kept secrets. But she does as he does, sets her feet, squares her hips, but she still keeps her shoulders hunched and her hands under her arms. It is too cold. 

The spring pool has a thin scrim of ice on the surface, but the small stream flows freely. Caralyn tilts her head to the right as she looks at it, trying to find the why of their trip here. Walking for an hour to stare at a puddle was something her father would only do if there was a reason. So she settles her rambling thoughts and looks. The ice has its own sort of music, the way it was water and not at the same time, and she lets tendrils of her magic investigate it, and the snow, and the running stream. 

The crystalline chime of the way the ice feels calls to her and she thinks about how that would feel in her throat if she were to say it. It is like the way lightning is the thrumming of her pounding heart that has a word she cannot say, but when she tries lightning just happens, easy as breathing. 

So she puzzles and worries over the chiming of ice and lets it build up in the back of her throat, fill her mouth, and her right hand twitches as she let her magic surge up. It is a little fast and she hisses as her skin stings, but she takes a measured breath, makes it settle and then crouches down. She reaches out to the surface of the stream and when her finger brushes the water she lets the power and the word-but-not that meant the chiming of ice escape her. The stream crackles into a transparent sheet, frozen and still now. 

Caralyn looks up at her father, with her eyebrows raised and he smiles at her without any sorrow in his eyes at all, and she grins back at him. It wasn’t always like this. Some of the things he showed her were so hard, and he had to show her step by step until she could even hold the shape of the magic in her mind. But lightning was always easy, and now she has learned ice. 

“You figured that out fast, Cara. I’m so proud of you.” His hand reaches over and ruffles through her hair before it stills there, just resting heavy and warm on her head. The same wave of heart-rent agony rolls through her, all aching loneliness and loss, but why? He is standing here, right here, and the twins and her mother are at home and they are as safe right now as they ever are. 

There is a crack as a limb, overburdened by the wet snow of late autumn, breaks and falls, catching Caralyn’s attention and dragging it away to the shifting, pale shadows of the snowy woods. She looks back when the weight of her father’s hand leaves her head, and she feels a stab of panic, but he is standing there, in the same spot watching her. Something about his scrutiny unnerves her, and she shifts. 

“Papa?” 

“Yeah, bug?”

“Can we go home? I’m cold now.” So cold, she is shivering uncontrollably, and she doesn’t even pretend she’s too old or too big when he squats down before her. She climbs onto his back, and when her legs are settled in the crooks of his elbows she rests her face against his back and closes her eyes. 

“Caralyn, don’t fall asleep back there. You’re supposed to be watching out for us. Templars under every rock and hedgerow right?” He gives her a hitch, scooting her higher up on his back and that makes her laugh. She buries her face in the leather and woodsmoke smell of his coat, breathing deeply, but it becomes the smell of rotten pears from the autumn of her fourteenth year when she’d been stung by fruit-drunk wasps in eight places, mixed with the dead cat she found split open and full of maggots in the woodshed at the Lothering house, all washed over with the scent of Bethany’s blood, hot metal gone cold and sour. She shakes her head, suddenly full of memories of things that are not yet, and begins to struggle to get down, or get away, or get out. 

She wakes, blood in her mouth, and the Arishok’s snarling face so very close to hers.

*** *** ***

Hawke’s magic has always been a little bit funny, as far as Merrill is concerned. Which she isn’t. Not really. Why should she be _concerned_? No, it isn’t concern, it’s just… different than she’s used to.

There’s always been something thorny about it, scalding where it should be warm, sharp instead of simply hard. And always more of it that she expects.

Of course Merrill’s own magic isn’t normal, not anymore, and that doesn’t make it bad despite what Marethari and her clan thinks. And Hawke knows sometimes there are things that are worth changing yourself for. 

She nearly asked a spirit for help when her mother died, didn’t she? 

So, Merrill expects, she truly does, with all of Hawke’s blood in puddles and streams all over the ground under her feet, where her toes can barely touch because she’s being held up only on the Arishok’s sword, to see her reach for that answer again. Sometimes it _is_ an answer. 

Varric’s hand has gone limp, and there’s a low, strangled wail building in Anders’ throat, and Isabela is just saying a long stream of “no” and “fuck” which might work to summon Hawke back, as they are her favorite words. Though usually in the other order. Alistair’s bearded face is as pale as when he’d been stabbed earlier. He hasn’t blinked in rather a long time, and wouldn’t it be terrible if Hawke died just when he returned? 

It would be terrible if Hawke died. Merrill’s eyes burn and her chest hurts and she knows her nails are biting into Varric’s unresisting hand.

Hawke looks dead, all limp there with the Arishok’s teeth bared in something like a snarl of victory, or a grin. Will he roar? Merrill doesn’t think he has the strength, and that’s good because she is going to kill him when this is over, if nobody else will. She won’t let him have Hawke’s life, or Isabela’s, or anything else he wants without paying in kind. He is panting, barely standing, and some of the blood, a lot of it really, that’s all over the fancy tiles and expensive carpets of the throne room, is his too, and the power of it all sings to her. She hopes though, before she takes it that Hawke won’t fall. She can’t. 

Oh Hawke. Her eyes flutter, and blood bubbles and spatters from her mouth as she gasps out a breath. Her hands come up to claw at the Arishok’s face, and the whole room _cracks_ with the sudden cold. There is frost on Merrill’s lips and the blood on the floor is gummy and thick, and the Arishok is falling stiff and dead, his frozen, clutching hand dragging the sword and a scream out of Hawke at the same time. 

When he hits the ground one of his great horns shatters just like an icicle, and no one seems to believe what they saw. 

“Maker’s breath.” Varric’s hand clutches back around hers, and he’s laughing for just a moment until Hawke falls, hands over the gout of blood from her middle. “Shit, shit, shit. Blondie.” 

Anders goes to her, and Merrill stands there between Varric and Isabela while Aveline tries to organize the crowd that is done being silent, is now chattering and cheering and roaring Hawke’s name. 

With the word “champion.” Varric tilts his head as he catches it, and she can see him planning, the keen edge of his mind pulling it apart so he can see how best to use all the parts. 

But Merrill can see the grey fatigue on Anders’ face, the last of his lyrium passing his lips to be poured back into Hawke through his hands, and she knows that even while the Qunari retreat, and the city begins to toll like a great bell with this victory, that Hawke might not live through the night. 

She tugs at Isabela’s arm. “We need to get things for her. For Anders, Isabela. I can’t help heal, but we can still help, can’t we?” She flaps a hand, and Isabela looks down at her, eyes too wide, smile too wide, everything about her too sure. She’s terrified. 

“Of course, kitten. Let’s go to work.” So they go, with the hope that when they get back to Hawke’s house she’ll be alive and inside it.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders and Alistair grapple with Hawke's injuries and prepare to grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Anders and Alistair talk about Caralyn as if she is probably going to die in this chapter, and I just want to reassure everyone that she's going to be just fine. 
> 
> I'd also like to remind everyone of the "drunk sex" tag on this fic, as well as "eventual slashypants." We've found our way to that eventuality.
> 
> Also: The usual, and by usual, I mean ANGST.

The blighted mage was still sitting there, next to Caralyn’s bed, grey faced and hunched. Alistair’s fingers gripped the doorjamb so hard his nails were biting into the wood as he watched. She was so very still, barely breathing, and Anders, idiot healer, was pushing his magic far beyond the borders of sanity. 

The night before had been all scrambling and dashing about, some shouting, a little fighting. Alistair had thrown a Coterie thug against a wall so hard his skull had fractured. The man had tried to tell Varric there simply wasn’t any lyrium to be had at any price. His friends’ tune had changed while he was bleeding from the ears. 

They needed the lyrium for Anders, so that Anders could keep Caralyn alive. And they’d procured it. And he had. Just. 

He’d appreciated that, having something to do, and Varric had told him he’d looked just the right sort of gritty and desperate to be intimidating. Add in a tiny bit of strong-arming and it was just like his mercenary days. He snorted softly, trying to find the humor in the fact that those “days” had ended less than three months ago, and somehow seemed a lifetime or two away. 

“He’s going to kill himself, isn’t he?” Merrill whispered, low notes of horror at Alistair’s elbow and he shook his head. The little elf’s footfalls were silent on the carpet, and he felt the hair on his neck raise, but he didn’t startle at the intrusion on his thoughts. There were people rattling around inside the estate, Varric was off some place making deals, Aveline had been in and out, and then there were the servants. No one had seen Isabela since they’d brought Caralyn in, limp in Fenris’ arms. She’d taken one look at the pack of them and basically vanished. 

“No.” Why would she say that? He swallowed, trying to work moisture into his mouth, decidedly not thinking about how after so many hours of constant healing, no food, the opposite of rest, on top of his Warden’s appetite, Anders was already visibly thinner.

He’d been light as a leaf when Alistair had half-carried him back from the Keep. His final bout of healing was enough to keep Caralyn on her feet through being named Champion. She stared with a dazed, murderous incredulity at the Knight-Commander, bowed her head when Varric nudged her, and then limped toward the doors, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind her. Anders hadn’t even made it that far before he’d started to crumple to the ground and Alistair was left to catch him. So Fenris had been the arms supporting her down the steps, and then carried her when her strength gave out entirely. 

“Oh, I think he will, if she dies, certainly, and if he has to heal himself to death to save her, well, of course he will.” Her huge eyes fixed on Alistair’s face when he looked down at her and he swallowed again, all versions of the future she described tasting of bile. 

The distance between the doorway and the chair by the bed felt immense, but Alistair crossed it, steps muffled on the thick rug, fingers flexing and curling restlessly until he stood next to Anders. The golden-brown eyes were dimmed by weariness and glassy with unshed tears in the brief glance he cast up at Alistair. 

“How is she?” The pale smudge of a woman in the bed seemed far too small to be Caralyn Hawke, the mage who had dueled the Arishok and won. His fingers ached wanting to reach out and smooth her hair. 

“Still breathing.” Anders lowered his head, resting it in his hands, long fingers winding into the unruly fall of hair that had come loose from its tie. Alistair could see his knuckles ridge and whiten as he gripped the strands. He still smelled of smoke and blood, thirty hours gone, not having left her side long enough to wash anything other than his hands. 

“That’s good.” Alistair reached over and closed his own hand around Anders’ wrist gently, thumb pressing over his pulse that seemed to race and jump and stutter. “You need to rest.” 

“How? She could still die. One more thimbleful of blood lost and she’d be gone already. I have to be here.” His voice broke and Alistair’s heart clenched and twisted. 

“If her heart stopped now what would you do?” It felt like a betrayal to even say it, his tongue trying to escape the words, but Merrill was right. Anders would die healing Hawke, literally and with no regrets. 

“Anything! Everything!” There was a twist to the thin wrist under Alistair’s fingers and Anders surged to his feet, the air suddenly a dangerous frisson around him, all hot metal and thunderstorm. “You do not command me!” Justice etched the edges of Anders’ voice, and Alistair had to step back, hands raised as the air heated and snapped between them. 

“No, well, of course. No one can command you not to die, not to kill yourself. I’m sure it would make her truly happy to know you keeled over for no reason. Tell me, Anders, _what would you do?_ Is there anything else you could do? Name one damn thing!” Alistair’s voice raised to an angry pitch, and suddenly Merrill was in his peripheral vision, hands clasped under her chin, looking worried, but determined. He didn’t know what she would do if this came to blows, but he was smart enough to know that whatever it was it would probably sting. 

“Go away.” Anders’ voice had fallen to a dull whisper. “You don’t understand. I’d give my life for her.” 

“That’s going to be of such comfort when you’re dead and she’s blaming herself because you were a stubborn nug’s ass.” The anger he felt was sullen and bitter and if he stopped to examine it for even a moment, Alistair knew he’d find envy in it. If he could die for her at this moment, wouldn’t he? He swallowed, turned sharply away, unable to stand there and watch Anders exhaust himself further, not when there was no hope in it, not when he stood to lose everything he had come back to Kirkwall to find. 

“Alistair…” There was regret in Anders’ tone, but he walked away, shaking his head. She would die, and he would die, and Alistair wouldn’t get to say any of the impossible things he had thought or felt in the months he had missed them, alone, while they had fallen together. 

*** *** ***

The library was dim, a pair of lamps on the mantle lit, and the fire small and mostly embers in the hearth. Alistair had been here before, waiting, staring, wishing he could do anything useful to help. He drank the rest of the whisky in his glass, and looked at the bottle on the low table in front of his the sofa. Half gone. He was well on his way to being properly drunk. 

It all seemed very reasonable given the situation. But given this exact situation he wasn’t sure reasonable or unreasonable counted for much. He poured another measure into the glass, not sure why he bothered with measures or even a glass. He set it down next to the bottle, untouched, leaned back and covered his eyes with one arm. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, or even if that was what this liquor soaked fog should be called, but there was no startling when he realized Anders was next to him on the sofa, hunched forward, his back a ridge of pain. “What?” His tongue was too thick in his mouth. 

Anders took a swallow from Alistair’s abandoned glass, and set it back next to the bottle on the table, which seemed rather emptier. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to her.” It could have been the first thing he said, or maybe he’d been talking while Alistair wasn’t really conscious enough to listen. Not that it mattered. The words recalled every time he’d ever been stabbed in his life piled into one huge ache in the center of his chest. 

He’d been stabbed a lot. The thought of having to say goodbye to Caralyn hurt more. 

“A kiss and a promise to take care of the people she’s leaving behind usually works.” Where had the bitterness come from that seemed to weave into those words? Alistair rubbed his hand over his face, grimacing at the scratch of the beard he hadn’t taken the time to shave, and then blinked when he found Anders watching him with narrowed eyes. 

“What exactly does that mean?” 

What did it mean? Alistair couldn’t get his thoughts in order, but his words seemed to have no actual interest in that. He started talking, the ache in his chest rising and breaking in his voice, and tears rising with it, and he couldn’t catch his tongue and hold it. “A nice kiss, a pat on the head, happy to be sent back to Elissa because you were supposed to keep her safe. She was worth that and now she’s dying and I was too late.” He leaned forward, finger raising and pressing hard against Anders’ sternum. 

“You’re drunk, Alistair, and that doesn’t make any bloody sense.” 

“Of course not. Of course it doesn’t make any sense. You know what makes sense? Her. Nothing.” He didn’t even recognize the disgusted groan that crept through his chest, into his throat. It _hurt_. “You said that once. _You said that._ ” He had shouted it actually, in the firelight outside the Bone Pit, at Fenris, just before sending Alistair after her and that was the last time he’d kissed her, held her, known she was something close to his.

“What?” Anders shook his head, brows twitching and knotting like he hurt too, his eyes raking over Alistair’s face like fingers, trying to solve him. 

“That it didn’t make sense unless she made it make sense. So you want to know how to tell her goodbye? I don’t know. It’s madness.” His hand balled into Anders’ shirt, gripping hard enough that he should probably worry he’d tear it, would if it wasn’t a ruin of blood spatters and scorch marks, and he dropped his head, trying to hide the tears that were threatening to spill now. 

There was a dry cough from Anders, bitter laugh or sob Alistair wasn’t sure. A hand came to rest on the side of his jaw. “She missed you so much.” 

Alistair leaned further forward, resting his forehead against Anders’ shoulder, smelling the sweat and the dirt, rust and ash and blood. He swallowed, trying to force back the pressure, the tears that rose and surged and swelled. She missed him? With Anders as her lover? While he had missed her, ached for her, and wished like an idiot for… He wanted to be angry, and he was, but somehow it was only because he had come home too late. 

They stayed there a moment, breathing together, Anders’ hand still pressed against his jaw, his fist still tangled in the front of the ruined shirt. He found himself turning his head under the gentle press, face nudging into the side of Anders’ neck, until his nose was buried in the fall of hair behind the other man’s ear. He inhaled again, and heard Anders suck in a sharp breath, fingers curling against the drag of his beard. 

“Alistair.” Ragged, full of worry and tears, and warmth. Alistair pulled back enough to look at him, the curve of his lower lip, the sharp blade of his nose, and then their mouths were crushed together and he had no idea which of them had moved. Both? Neither? Maybe it was the world that was different, and without the hope for futures and home and _Caralyn_ to give him a center, he just fell into the closest warm body. 

He’d done that for years. Drunk, angry, holding the hurt of Elissa’s betrayal like a cold iron ball in the pit of his stomach, able to ignore it when his mouth and hands were full of a stranger’s soft flesh. Anders wasn’t a stranger. This man was his friend, at the very least, and not soft, not the way those women had been. Caralyn had been one of them, once. Only once. Every time after that first it had been something else. 

So how did he find himself with his tongue pushing in past these warm, shocked lips while she was dying three doors away?

It took a moment, but the instant that Anders started kissing him back there was nothing else. Not the smoldering anger at Elissa for taking him away from Kirkwall for so long, not the fear, all numbing and brittle, that Anders would push himself past his limits and die trying to save Caralyn, and not the choking, molten anguish at the thought that she might die. Even the vague despair that there was no place for him here anymore was lost as Anders’ strong, slender hands slid up into his hair and gripped his head hard. 

Alistair groaned low in his throat. The tongue that pressed against his, teeth sharp and mouth needy-- it was fast and wet, and there were tears still on his face. This kiss was all ashes and salt. Anders pressed him back into the sofa, fingers tugging at his hair and then swung a leg across him, straddling his lap. 

The weight that settled there made Alistair buck up against his ass, finding himself hard and wanting, and there was no time to wonder at it, how easily he had become this thing, this thrall to lust and need, hands sliding under the shirt against the narrow waist of the man grinding down on him. No reflection, no time to think about how different this was. It was not kind, or sweet, or gentle, as he’d maybe imagined it. Anders’ fingernails were raking down his chest under his shirt, dragging further through the hair under his navel, and suddenly those long fingers were jerking both of their pants open. 

The kiss had to break so Anders could look down, breathing heavily, narrower shoulders slightly hunched. Alistair ran his fingers through the fall of all that ruddy blond hair, holding it back, so he could see those burning amber eyes, glazed and wild. His own limbs felt heavy, distant, soaked in liquor and he should stop this. He shouldn’t, they shouldn’t, not when Caralyn was maybe-probably-dying and it wasn’t right? But the moment Anders’ hand slid against the hard ridge of his cock, the callouses of his palm, his fingers, scraping slightly in a way that was novel and undeniable, that impulse to protest was gone. Lost. Lost further when the dark reddish trail down Anders’ stomach was followed lower and his own straining erection was pulled out and when their cocks slid together, guided by those clever, agile fingers, Alistair couldn’t quite stifle a soft cry. 

Anders caught the throaty gasp with his mouth, pressing all his weight into Alistair, shoving him back into the sofa. His hand was caught between them, fingers a gentle ring of pressure at odds with the slight drag of damp skin, sweat turning hard flesh slightly tacky. His tongue was everywhere in Alistair’s mouth, and he was growing dizzy, scalp a fizzy sort of tingle. He strained upward, pressing harder into Anders since there was no room for his own hands between their hips. His fingers found the back of Anders’ trousers, sliding beneath the loosened belt and biting into the lean muscle of his tense ass. The grinding stuttered and Anders groaned, teeth suddenly grabbing hard at Alistair’s lower lip. 

The heat that ran under Alistair’s skin was suddenly flame, searing, painful with the sensation of skin and mouth and it was something he’d been missing for weeks stacked on weeks of not letting anyone close. Wardens had offered, Galen, even Elissa had made it clear he was welcome to offer up his adoration again. His thoughts had turned only toward Kirkwall, and his lonely nights had all the satisfaction of his youth, hurried tugs in infrequent privacy in the Templar recruit barracks. 

Now though, he had the sharp burn of the stubble under his lips. It wound its way into his dreams, beside the plush mouth of Caralyn and Alistair just wanted. Had wanted for far too long to have something that was his, and even though Anders wasn’t _his_ by any measure, this moment was. He surged forward, a little clumsy as his knees hit the carpet, bearing them both to the ground. 

The mouth under his gasped as he settled Anders on the floor, careful not to let him clip the table, one arm coming up to his shoulders, cupping the back of his head so that it wouldn’t thump against the carpet. He bore down, letting his weight settle between the thighs suddenly squeezing hard around his hips. The first thrust against the hand on his cock, the hard length below it, and there were sparks in his vision and a whine in Anders’ throat. Alistair’s mouth was there now, tasting salt and fire and blood, smoke and sweat under his tongue, teeth scraping against the dark stubble as he pushed and pushed and pushed and then came with a hoarse half-sob. 

He lay there, arms still awkward under Anders’ back, face against his throat, panting as the final few tugs between them added more spend to his own. Anders came with a tiny whine that vibrated against Alistair’s still lips. They both took slow, shuddering breaths, and when Anders tapped him gently on the shoulder he felt the slow burn of embarrassment rising in his gut and the back of his neck as he pushed carefully off, arms and knees shaking slightly. 

There was less prickling, spurring heat, and less whisky haze, and all Alistair was left with was the slowly cooling damp spot on the front of his trousers and the inability to look at Anders’ face. He pushed himself back up onto the sofa, tucked away and clothes pulled closed, watching as Anders slowly sat up and looped his elbows around his knees, head hanging. 

The silence stretched as Alistair stared at the floor between his feet and Anders’, trying to find something to say that wouldn’t sound… stupid. “That was--”

“I didn’t mean--” 

They both fell silent as they spoke together, and whatever Alistair had intended to say, he’d lost. Perhaps he simply needed to apologize and then flee? He darted a glance at Anders, whose face was still facing the ground, but he could see his brows drawn together... in pain? “Anders…” His voice was soft, a little hoarse, but before he could continue there was a cough from the doorway.

Alistair’s bleary eyes shifted and focused on Varric standing there, expression closed and tense, hands clasped awkwardly behind him. “You asked me to let you know if Hawke looked like she was waking up, Blondie.” 

Anders’ chin jerked up, and he scrambled to his feet, hands tying his trouser front and jerking his shirt down with a grimace. “She’s awake?” 

“She asked for water, and that was it, but I thought you’d want to know.” The dwarf’s eyes skipped toward Alistair and back. “It’s nearly morning. Either of you get any sleep?” 

Alistair rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head, while Anders brushed by Varric and hurried out of the room. 

The dwarf stayed in the doorway, rocking on his heels briefly and then let out a gravelly sort of sigh. “You look pretty wrecked, New Guy. Maybe you should grab a bed, let it go. Somebody will let you know if they need anything.” The gentleness of Varric’s tone drew the bile up in Alistair’s throat, but he nodded, swaying a little as he pushed up to his feet. 

He didn’t meet Varric’s curious eyes as he stepped past him, chin tucked a little. He felt… grimey all of a sudden. He plucked at his soiled clothing, keeping it from brushing against his stomach. 

He found himself in one of the bedrooms, the one that was Anders’ before the journey to Ostwick and farther. He fell into the bed after washing at the basin, trying not to hunt the healer’s lingering scent in the linens. Orana was too meticulous a housekeeper for that, it had been too long, far too long for that to linger, and instead he had the ghost of sweat and fire in his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is partially written already and I'd like to have it up either Sunday or Monday. I've been working on Questions Answered a full year as of the 15th, and that's pretty amazing to me. Thank you all so much for being so supportive over the twelve months, and nearly 150k words. You all are amazing and thank you thank you thank you for all the kudos and comments. <3


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which weeks pass with Hawke in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that I am so sorry this chapter took so long and is relatively short. If you follow me on tumblr you probably noticed my flailing and whinging as I worried that I'd lost the thread of the story. I feel back on track, but unfortunately, this chapter is more of a bridge than anything. 
> 
> That said, mopey bed-ridden Hawke ahoy.

The silence. The half-dark of the lamps that never stopped burning. The way nobody seemed to want to speak when they were in her room, but as soon as they were in the hall there was all that whispery nugshit that she couldn’t make any sense of. Or were those only dreams? Demons? 

Hawke was pretty fucking sure demons wouldn’t be whispering about keeping her fever down and making sure she drank enough fluids. 

The first time she blinked to a gritty, agonizing consciousness she didn’t manage to hold onto it long. Everything _hurt_ , dragging a strangled gurgle from her throat that had Merrill leaping to her side to help her roll and empty her guts into a basin. She was already slipping back into the dark when the small cup had been pressed to her mouth, soothing herbs in lukewarm water. 

“I’ll just get Anders, Hawke, don’t worry, you’re much better.” Hawke swallowed the mouthful of liquid that Merrill urged on her, and fell back to sleep with the cool, slender fingers of her friend brushing her hair back from her forehead. 

If Anders did turn up, she was long lost to the Fade when he appeared. Idiot. 

The second time was a bit longer, and this time her brother, that hemorrhoidal ogre’s asshole, was sitting at her bedside, hands clasped around her fingers. He wasn’t speaking, just sitting there with his head slightly bowed, dark hair hiding his eyes. Weren’t Templars supposed to keep it all neat and combed and trimmed? 

She could see the upper curves of his ears, the way they stuck out just a touch, the same angle that Bethany’s had. The tears that stung her eyes were sudden and unexpected. Deathbeds made people maudlin, maybe, especially when Carver fucking Hawke turned up and prayed over you.

Her shit of a Templar brother praying over her. She twitched her hand, trying to to jerk it away, and the motion startled a sudden snore out of him as he flinched back, bleary eyes wide in confusion. 

“You were sleeping!” Her voice was an unrecognizable croak. “You complete fucking shit!” 

Carver’s eyes blinked owlishly at her, lighter blue than hers, same as her mother’s had been. She felt a fresh wave a tears prickle in her throat. 

“It isn’t as if you’ve been a font of conversation, sister.” Carver’s mouth stretched in a grimace as he rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat forward. 

She tried to snort at him, but it turned into a wracking, gagging cough. 

“Easy.” The grimace looked almost worried and Hawke squinted up at her brother, wondering if she’d actually woke up at all. “Wasn’t enough that you had to go and save the city and get another title, now everyone’s got to sit around and watch you to make sure you don’t die.” Ah, there he was. Prick.

Everything still hurt, so when he helped her sit up slightly and sip more something that tasted of elfroot and mint, she let him. She wouldn’t have been able to break his nose even if she had the strength to make a fist. He settled her back down, and with a confusingly tender gesture, brushed her hair back from her face. She’d closed her eyes and pretended to sleep until he went away. 

She couldn’t even sort out what the fuck that was all about. 

The third time she jerked half-upright, groaning in a hoarse shout from the pain in her middle at the sudden movement… and from the remnants of the nightmare she was fighting. Topher’s dead hands clammy on her throat as his empty, bloody eyesockets dripped onto her face, and as she scrambled and struggled, trying to get free she saw Alistair’s broad back walking away. One glance back from him and it was the pale horror that furrowed his brow that had jerked her awake, his name strangling her. 

Anders was standing over her, frowning like he was the one in pain, shoulders slightly hunched. She tried to rub at the tears that slipped down her cheeks, to push them away, hide them from him. He looked like shit, skinny, worn down, _sad_. 

“Where were you?” She managed to get a hand on his wrist, hung on hard to his arm, croaking out the words, unsure of what she meant. He frowned as he he licked healing magic into her, easing the hurt away. She felt too heavy to hold on to the world, though she tried, nails scratching at Anders’ skin as she fought against the falling sensation. 

“Shh, Hawke, go back to sleep.” His free hand fluttered by her cheek, like he wanted to cup it, brush the tears away, something, but he didn’t touch her and she sank back into the pillow with tears rolling from her tightly closed eyes. “Are you hurting?” His voice was rough and the brush of his magic changed, warmer, and it towed her back under, into sleep. 

*** *** ***

Hawke decided by the time she woke up enough to have an opinion, that she hated everything. 

Had she really killed the Arishok? Fucking void. She shook her head as she pushed herself up to half sitting, head swimming, middle aching and sore. She was angry, alone. It was the middle of the day by the light and she felt like the biggest shit the archdemon ever took. 

There was a glass on the table next to her, and a book in the seat of the chair. Her hand shook as she grabbed for the water and when she slopped it over the side her fingers slipped and it fell with a soft thump onto the carpet. “Maker fucking damn it.” 

“Still not at your best there, Hawke?” It was Varric’s gentle rasp from the doorway, and he sauntered toward the bed, eyes searching her face carefully. “How you feeling?” 

She shrugged, trying to pull the blankets back from her legs, swing them down, but even that simple weight was too great and her damp fingers just sort of flibbered about like worms. 

“Nope, none of that. Blondie warned me what an ass you’d be when you woke up.” Varric’s hand was on her shoulder, heavy and warm and too strong as he held her still. “You want to sit up and have something to drink, we can do that, but you aren’t getting up yet. Not until you’re cleared by our healer.” 

“That’s nugshit, Varric, you can’t just keep me prisoner in my bed. For fuck’s sake, I might have to piss you know and Maker’s cock I just want to…” She faltered, cheeks heating, wondering what sort of system they’d been using to let her piss. She stopped fighting as he got another pillow tugged up behind her, and pushed her back. The tirade held none of her normal vitriol. Pretty fucking pathetic. She offered no resistance at all to the gentle press until she settled against the pillows with a ragged sigh. “How long?” she finished in a whisper. 

“About a week.” He stooped to pick up the glass and filled it from a pitcher at the sideboard. He helped her take a long sip of it, hand steadying hers easily. 

“A week?” She groaned and leaned her head back, letting it thump into the pillows.

“More or less.” 

She tilted her head so she could glare at him. “How much more?” 

“About a week.” One corner of Varric’s mouth crooked into a smile and she rolled her eyes. So nearly two weeks. 

“Anders is back to work in the clinic?” She slid her gaze over to the dwarf, who was frowning at the glass in his hands. 

“Yeah. Well, you know how he is. Lots of people needed help with the fires and explosions and rampaging Qunari.” He rotated the glass a quarter turn with his blunt fingers and then tugged on the shoulder of her bedgown. “Come on, drink up, Champion.” 

That word brought back a flood of patchy memory, warm blood making her belly and thighs sticky, barely standing with Fenris and Varric propping her up and Anders slumping, semi-conscious into Alistair’s shoulder after healing her enough to meet the Knight-Commander’s icy eyes and accept the title that would hopefully keep her from being hauled off to the Gallows right there. She groaned. “Don’t, Varric. Just don’t.” 

“Hawke, honey, you’re going to have to get used to it. Marchers take this Champion shit seriously.” She swallowed down the water he held to her lips as he talked. “You’ve got a stack of letters downstairs taller than me full of congratulations, invitations, and felicitations.” He chuckled when she snorted and he set the glass aside. 

She scowled down at her hands, knotted in her lap, scared to ask about the other person she had hoped to see. The one who hadn’t been there any of the times she’d woke. “How’d they twist your arm into babysitting?” 

“Who said I needed an arm twisted? You’ve got comfy chairs, good booze. Sure it’s _Hightown_ but…” He shrugged, smiling affably. “We’ve been taking turns keeping you company.” 

“Everyone?” 

“Sure. Aveline was here this morning, Fenris last night.” 

Her eyes jerked up and she glared at him. “You’re fucking full of shit.” 

“Hand to the Maker. Even Junior came around a few times.” He rubbed a hand over his chin, leaned back into his chair. 

“None of you have anything better to do than watch me sleep?” She chewed on her upper lip, gnawing at the dry, cracked skin there. 

“Well, some of us seem to think so.” Varric’s voice held a slight sour note, disapproval. “Isabela ran off of course. Said she didn’t want to get your staff up her ass once you were able to lift it, so off she went. Stole half of Elegant’s stock for your care and upkeep first. Been keeping you good and out of it, too.” 

So that was why she couldn’t remember much the past two weeks, except for dreams about Topher and the few times she’d woke enough to be drugged back under. There was a different, panicky ache in her chest as Hawke grimaced and shook her head, chasing it away. Topher was dead, regardless of what that might cost her, and she was safe in her bed. 

Her lip tore a little under her teeth, and then pressing the tip of her tongue against the sting, tasting blood. 

From under her lashes she could see Varric watching her with a wry smirk that didn’t do one fucking thing to hide the worried glimmer in his eyes, and he shrugged one shoulder. “She’ll be back, Hawke.” 

“Like the fucking clap. Probably with the fucking clap.” She ran her fingers up into her hair and then grunted in disgust at the oily tangles. “Varric, I want a bath.” She was whining and she didn’t care. 

“Nope, not happening. Not even remotely my job. I’ll get Blondie up here and you can fight with him about it.” He shook his head slowly, pushing up out of the chair. His hand patted over the lump of her knee, lingered just a moment. 

Her teeth found the sore spot on her lip again, chewing as she looked at Varric’s knuckles. Anders would be so busy in the clinic, and she wasn’t able to help. She shook her head slowly. The hand on her knee squeezed gently and she squeezed her eyes shut against the possibility she’d see pity in Varric’s eyes. “No, nevermind, he’ll come home when he’s ready. He can actually help the city. But, Varric… have you seen Alistair at all since--” She bit her lip hard to cut those words off. She didn’t want to ask that question, not of Varric, not now. 

Still. She opened to her eyes to find one of the dwarf’s eyebrows twitching upwards and he patted her knee again. “He’s around.” He hesitated, pulling his hand away. “He hasn’t been dragged off by any crazy Wardens or Fereldan noblemen bent on coups or revenge or whatever that shit was all about.” He chuckled softly. “So rest. Don’t worry about that idiot, alright? I’m keeping him busy.” 

“Busy?” That was… worrying. Sort of. But if Varric was keeping an eye on him, he’d be alright. She hoped. There was something steely in the warm brown of Varric’s gaze, like maybe Alistair wouldn’t be alright, actually. Hawke grimaced as she tried to force her mind to sort through Varric’s expression, but it was too complicated, and with two weeks gone by there was so much she didn’t know, and she was too fucking tired to ask, let alone listen to an answer. 

“There’s a lot of… shit going on right now, Hawke. Looters, bandits, the gangs are all stirred up looking for new turf.” Varric rocked his head a little back and forth. “So between that, and the digging out and rebuilding… making sure Hightown doesn’t hoard everything and that people are fed, there’s plenty to do.” 

Hawke growled softly, leaning her head back and squeezing her eyes shut. It made sense, but it wasn’t as much of an answer as she’d hoped. “So everyone else is out there cleaning up my mess? While I’m sleeping.” 

“Your mess, huh?” 

“Varric, if I hadn’t fucked things up with the Arishok so damn bad--”

“Or!” He snapped his fingers as he interrupted her. “There wouldn’t be anyone left to help if you hadn’t turned him into a big Qunari shaped icicle and saved the half of the city that was still standing!” 

She tipped her head up again so she could glare at the dwarf. 

“You’re the one they named Champion, not… Official Ruiner. I think we can let Meredith have that title, huh?” Varric’s eyes twinkled a little, even as he watched her carefully. What he was looking for, she wasn’t sure. He just looked worried, and tired, and she shouldn’t be making his life harder. 

“Fine.” 

Varric smirked at that. “Not going to argue any more?” 

“I won’t be able to strangle you right now to make you stop talking, so what’s the fucking point?” She sighed softly as he laughed and dipped his head. 

“Right. Good chat, Hawke. Go back to sleep, I’ll let Blondie know you were awake longer than three minutes, and since you didn’t try to get up, I’ll even remember to mention the bath thing.” He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, straightenings his sleeves, and half bent to retrieve Bianca where she leaned near the nightstand. 

She snorted and shook her head, but it was so heavy she could barely keep it up long enough to do it. She sank back into the cushions. “Can you stay?” 

Varric’s eyebrows raised a little as he straightened.

“Or send Orana in or something. I don’t want to... “ She closed her eyes, blocking out the pity that she was sure would wash over Varric’s face when he realized she didn’t want to be alone. But of course, they must know that, otherwise why were they hovering over her when there was so much work to be done?

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to finish this chapter anyway.” She cracked open an eye to watch Varric take a seat back in the chair he’d vacated, opening the book in his lap. He flipped a few pages and then settled back. “You want me to read a little?” 

“As long as it isn’t Hard in Hightown.” She managed to smirk at his soft huff at the slight. It felt strange on her face.

“Nah, this one is Fereldan princess stories mostly. Has ‘Carver is a booger eater’ written on the inside of the front cover.” He grinned at her and she let her eyes slide shut again, squeezing them against the sting and the slight tremor in her lips. The things that had made it from Lothering onto the boat had been incredibly stupid, all of it uselessly sentimental. But Bethany’s storybook had stayed in Hawke’s pack the whole way. “‘Once there was a young maid who lived near Highever, with only a duck and two sheep for friends…’ I use the term ‘princess’ loosely.” 

Varric kept reading, stories that she’d heard a hundred times, read to her younger siblings a hundred more, and the sleep she found was more peaceful than she had any right to expect.

*** *** ***

“You should at least wait until she wakes up.” There’d been a slow warm tug toward consciousness that Hawke associated with Anders’ magic but those were the first words that made sense while she lay there, drifting still. 

“Merrill, I have so much work to do. There’s a flux with the rains and half of Lowtowns cisterns damaged. I have to go.” Anders sounded exhausted. Hawke blinked her eyes open, but the voices were from the hall, and she couldn’t focus far enough to see the doorway. 

“Hawke needs you too, Anders.” 

“Hawke has you and Varric and Aveline and bloody… everyone. She has everyone. I’m all the people in my clinic have, all the mages of this town have.” There were shadings of anger and frustration and Justice in his voice, and Hawke tried to call out, because she wanted to see the fucking idiot, pull his hair and tell him to stop. For just a minute, to stop. He wouldn’t be eating, wouldn’t be sleeping, if no one made him. Her voice came out as a dry croak, unheard and Anders carried on, sounding more himself, if brisk and a little officious. “She’s fine. She needs rest still, but she’ll be fine. Like I told you, bland soft foods for a few days. If she can keep them down, she can bathe, just make sure she doesn’t catch a chill.” 

“Are you worried she’s going to be angry at you?” 

“I’m not…” Hawke could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I have to go.” 

The sound of Anders bootheels falling in sharp clicks down the stairs faded away and Hawke found the ache in the middle twisting and tears stinging her eyes in frustration at her weakness. 

“Hawke! Oh, you’re awake, are you alright?” Merrill’s pinched worry was as plain in her voice as in the drawn quirk of her brows as she leaned over Hawke. “I can catch Anders, he just left!” 

“No.” She could only manage that single syllable and shook her head. 

“No?” Merrill cocked her head to one side. “But I thought you’d… but no, Varric said he wasn’t going to tell you, and…” She pressed fingertips over her lips and shook her head. 

“Merrill, what--” Hawke broke off, coughing and Merrill turned to the sideboard, shaking her head and muttering soft elvhen words under her breath. Her ears were pink when she came back with water, and helped Hawke to sit and drink. 

“It doesn’t matter. Everyone is fine, aren’t they? Anders could stand to let Orana make him a meal or two, maybe, but it isn’t as if he’ll actually starve to death. Will he?” She was so patient, her slim cool hands helping Hawke to an incline where she could swallow without choking, it was hard to be angry that she was babbling over any of Hawke’s attempted questions. The water tasted too good. “Besides, it isn’t as if you’ll have to choose this way, hmm?” Merrill bit her lip and shook her head, before turning away to fill the cup again. 

Choose what? Hawke was starting to drift again, whatever energy her conversation with Varric had taken from her not replenished yet, and whatever healing Anders had performed sapping the last of her strength for the day. Merrill helped her have another drink and then settled her back on the bed. 

“Choose what, Merrill?” Her words were slightly slurred. 

“Nothing, Hawke. Nothing. I’m just babbling again, aren’t I?” She was silent as Hawke’s eyes slipped closed and then muttered, “Creators, I wish Isabela had stayed.” 

Sleeping was easier than fighting, and questioning, snarling, demanding an answer. And it had been a long time since she’d been able to do anything but fight and question and snarl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you for reading, commenting, kudos...ing...? etc. Your kindness and patience is always appreciated. :)


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders ties himself in several knots and realizes he's been an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say: everyone who leaves comments on new chapters you are the light of my life. I didn't get to replying timely-like on the last update, and then it got awkward in that "wow this has been a long time" sort of way. But please know that I read and treasure every one of them. <3

For the first time in days Anders reached up and snuffed out the lantern. His hand shook as he lifted the cover and blew it out. It should have been a thought and the barest flicker of will to banish the flame, but he was exhausted past the point he could focus even that far for something so petty. He frowned at the blood streaking his wrists and turned inside, barring the door behind him. 

For the first time in… a while... there was a moment of silence in the clinic. If only it felt peaceful. 

If only it smelled less terrible. 

He wasn’t sure the last time he’d been so filthy for so long. No, that was a lie. It was during the long slog through the Deep Roads following after Hawke. Or actually... it might have been when he spent two weeks in Kal’Hirol and came face to tentacle with a pit of rather squashed brood mothers. 

But now that he thought about it, under Drake’s Fall when they’d fought the Mother? 

Blackmarsh was never particularly tidy either. 

And then there was the taste of blood in his mouth, and running, covered in… well, he didn’t think about the aftermath of his joining with Justice. 

Or the smell of of his own filth combined with the damp and mildew and dark of the dungeons of Kinloch Hold. 

Pushing his sleeves up to his elbows he thrust his hand into the basin on his workbench, and forced himself to find the reserves so his magic could warm the water to a stinging, steaming heat. As he scrubbed the skin almost raw once more, Anders just had to admit that his life had been punctuated for a very long time by blood, and viscera, and all manner of disgusting muddy charred bits probably also smeared in excrement. 

Really, that was fitting. 

And now he lived in Darktown. 

He tried not to taste the bitterness that came creeping up his throat at the thought. He’d chosen that, of course, and it had only been Cara-- Hawke’s stubborn bullying that had made him think he could choose something else. For a little while. 

What were those few short months of clinging to her, accepting her largesse, compared to the years he’d spent down here, healing, helping, working for better lives for all mages? 

Paradise, is what they’d been. He managed to think that even with Justice’s near-painful spike of disapproval. 

“Yes, yes, I’m a degenerate hedonist who has three shirts and one pair of shoes. Thank you for reminding me of all my failings once again.” He inspected his nails as he muttered, and satisfied that they were clean, he dried his hands on a clean scrap of linen. 

The clinic was quieter than it had been in days; the recent rains that had added a new element to the gaatlok-induced instability in the foundations of the poorest sections of Lowtown were gone again, replaced by unseasonably hot autumn weather. It was a relief in certain ways. There hadn’t been a collapsed tenement in days. The ashy mud had baked stiff and gray and flaking. Maybe if there was enough water left in an abandoned rain barrel somewhere Anders would be able to wrangle himself half a bath. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been since the Qunari had tried to burn the city down. Everything lower than the Merchant’s guild still looked like… well like a rampaging horde of Qunari had attacked the city… and all he wanted was a bath. The hollow, sour twist in his middle was simply Justice reminding him how selfish he was being. 

His hands were the only thing clean about him right now, and he knew he looked and smelled just like the sewer rat Hawke called him sometimes. He let out a breath after a short, painful hitch. The clench in his chest was ignorable, it always had been. A few weeks of indulgence in Hightown hadn’t changed that. But it still hurt to think about her. 

The last time he saw her she’d been asleep in her bed, and he’d left despite Merrill’s insistence he stay, despite the fact he knew if he’d waited another few minutes her eyes would have blinked open. How long ago had that been? He tried to figure it, to think about how many baskets of food had appeared on his stoop from Orana’s kitchen, that he’d been too hungry to refuse to eat. He could feel the looseness of his own skin in places, knew he was dangerously thin, the never-ending parade of indigent, homeless, newly orphaned keeping him moving, keeping him healing. How long had he been down here without seeing the sun? Days, certainly. A week at most maybe? Two? 

Hawke would be mostly recovered by now. He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly and tried to focus past the buzzing of fatigue, and the dull ache that had been his constant companion in the base of his skull. How long since he’d seen her? He wished he’d been stronger that day so he could at least have said goodbye to Cara, but he’d been afraid to see pity or regret or guilt in her eyes when she told him things were different. Alistair was back, and well… There had been so much work to do ever since.

Alistair. Another unapproachable aching snarl, this time in his gut. Anders hadn’t spoken to him since the night they’d rutted on the floor of Hawke’s library like adolescents, foolish and hungry. Drunk. That could be an excuse but it wasn’t a good one. Anders had felt like he was crumbling, sure that Hawke was going to die and then there had been warm hands grounding him. He had always been weak for that sort of thing. 

He wanted to brush his hair back from his forehead, pull it sharply to give himself something to focus on, but it was lank and greasy and that would undo all the work he’d done to clean his hands, wouldn’t it? Instead his head was filled with broken gasps and seeking, desperate mouth on his, and the encompassing strength as he’d been lifted to the floor before Alistair had settled on top of him and he’d felt… anchored. 

He groaned, pressing fingertips into his eyes, trying to force all those images away, still the heave and empty churn in his gut. He’d fallen asleep in a chair in Hawke’s room and when he woke Alistair was still sleeping in a guest room so he’d left him there, and then there was no end to work while the city tried not to burn down, and bleed to death, and collapse in on itself in the wake of the Arishok’s madness. There had never been a moment he could seek the man out and speak to him, to explain. He ignored the slight prickle along the back of his neck. It was the truth. Mostly. 

“What would I bloody say?” His hands were shaking again as he put the last of his meager supplies back on the shelves. His herb stores were nearly depleted. “‘I’m terribly sorry I groped you. By the way, the woman you love? She’s fantastic in bed. Maybe I could pop up and watch you… plow her sometime?’” He flinched away from the words as if they hadn’t come from him, shook his head to clear the image he’d managed to conjure. It did sound like him though, something he’d say, usually just before someone punched him right in the mouth. 

That’s how it would go in one of Varric and Isabela’s torrid serials, he supposed. Less the punching, maybe. He needed to get the fanciful notion that they’d managed to plant in his head out of it. He wasn’t… they weren’t… Justice had only latched onto the idea that with Alistair back in Hawke’s life Anders would no longer be distracted by her, that they could return to their real work, and the way his thoughts skittered and wormed and worried about her, whether she was angry, or maybe she hadn’t noticed that he’d disappeared? But no, she’d always been there, even when she was chasing after _Fenris_ of all people, and Andraste’s tits he had to stop. 

He’d thought he was done running, that he’d finally found a place to come to rest, where he needed to be, and he was needed and now… what did he need? Closure maybe. To know she was well. To believe that he was strong enough to look at her and know that she wasn’t _for him_. Champions didn’t keep possessed apostate lovers. But… 

Andraste’s knickers, he needed some void-taken sleep. 

Which was why instead of that, he found himself settling the buckles of his coat with absent fingers and picking up his staff, feet set on a path that would lead him to Lowtown and the Hanged Man. 

He was a fool, and heartsick with guilt, and in the one minute of silence that he’d tried to weather since she’d nearly fallen to the Arishok’s blade, his resolve collapsed, like he was the one gutted. Useless. If he scowled any harder as he took the stairs to the Lowtown market, he’d start growling like Fenris. 

That was a picture. Another one of Cara’s lovers who had turned away from her and regretted it. Bitterly. 

Anders shook his head as he drew up outside the tavern. It would be quick, easy even. Check with Varric, make sure everyone was taken care of, and he could go back to the clinic knowing that he hadn’t abandoned her. 

“Well, of course I bloody abandoned her.” The roil in his gut was part his own guilt, part Justice, all tangled with the knowledge that giving Alistair a tug and tickle on her floor was bloody well a _betrayal_ , and that had made it easier to slink away again. “Coward.” He took a deep breath, exhaled firmly through his nose, and pushed the door open, feeling for all the world like he was expecting to face her in the common room of the Hanged Man instead of Varric. 

So, of course, _of course_ Alistair was leaning against the bar, glancing up from a mug, and meeting Anders eyes just as he tripped on the threshold. His eyes held a wary apprehension, flicked behind Anders quickly, as if expecting someone else to follow him, and there was something hungry and disappointed and sad in the way he glanced away. He’d been waiting? Well, of course he’d know, just as Anders would have if he’d paid attention to the slight singing tickle of the other Warden’s presence that was drowned out by the buzz and hiss of Justice, and his own ever-tightening coil of anxiety and guilt. 

The flush that Anders could feel creeping into his skin at how bedraggled and filthy he was gave him plenty of reason to look around the common room, eyes flicking and nervous. But Hawke wasn’t there. He looked back to Alistair and found him studying him with a furrow between his brows, and he looked well. Very well. His hair was still a bit shaggy, but the beard had been trimmed, and with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow Anders could see the shift of his muscles under the freckled, tanned skin of his forearms. But… he was dressed in a tunic and worn trousers and there was no armor or weapon in sight, which wasn’t how one walked to the Hanged Man after dark. 

So much for easy. Anders shook his head against the thousand sudden reasons this was a terrible idea, all presented by either his own ridiculous cowardice or Justice, or both. He couldn’t just turn and run back to the clinic. Not when he could see the way Alistair’s ears had turned pink and he was staring into his ale as if it had insulted him. With Corff’s ale, that wasn’t out of the question, sure, but Anders couldn’t just turn away. Not after everything else. 

“Alistair. Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

There was confusion in his eyes, the green and gold in them brighter in the lamplight than Anders remembered. “No? That’s… weird.” He scritched at the beard over his jaw, looked over Anders’ shoulder again. 

“I… yes. It just, you know, fades into the background if you try hard enough to ignore it.” The curl to Alistair’s lips isn’t exactly a smile, bemused maybe? “Wardens, I mean. Not that I was ignoring-- well.” He fell silent, wincing at his own floundering, then cleared his throat. “Is Hawke off talking to Varric, then?” He winced harder at the cracking in his voice, though whether it was hope or fear he couldn’t tell himself. 

There eyes met, and there was a flicker in Alistair’s gaze, a widening, a sort of dawning horror, that Anders felt like a sudden cold stab in his heart. He moved closer, steps whip-quick and steady with the sudden rush of adrenaline, catching the shoulder of his shirt in a fist. The surprise on his face was almost comical, endearingly poleaxed, but Anders was too focused on the sudden panic that was bursting in his chest. “Where in the void is Hawke?” 

The tip of Alistair’s tongue flicked over his lower lip and he shook his head, eyebrow lifting. “Hawke? Oh, Caralyn? The woman you live with? You’ve lost her? When did you last see her? Did you check your pockets?” 

The woman Anders lived with. He felt that like a punch in the gut. “You aren’t staying there.” 

“Given… well… everything, and the fact I wasn’t invited to stay, and… You left her?” He pushed up off the bar, standing at full height and Maker… Anders had to take a step back. He wasn’t used to having to look up at people, even if it was only a slight height difference, the breadth of Alistair made him more imposing. 

Anders let go of Alistair’s shirt and turned away, striding back toward the stairs. “I need to talk to Varric.” 

The footsteps behind him let Anders know that Alistair stuck close, and he had to keep his shoulders from hunching, worried that the stench of his unwashed clothing, days of blood and sick and the foul mildewed damp that settled into his feathers would be wafting behind him. His cheeks burned hotter. He was worried that he had abandoned Hawke without explanation, thinking that the bloody dolt behind him would be there to take care of her, and he still had time for his vanity to prickle and moan that the same bloody dolt (who could kiss like no man had a right to, honestly) could _smell_ all of Darktown seeping out of his pores. 

He supposed he should be grateful that when Alistair’s heavy, calloused hand grabbed his arm they were out of sight of the common room, half a hallway away from Varric’s door. He found himself spun and pushed against the wall, narrowed hazel eyes staring at him. “You left her!” It had gone from question and disbelief to appalled accusation. 

“I’m apparently not the only one.” Anders wished he could find the height to look down his nose at Alistair. He still tried. 

“You… you were living with her. Sharing her bed, and she was nearly actually cut in half and you just… left her?” He was back to confused. “You didn’t know I wasn’t-- you didn’t even speak to her, did you?” 

“And you did?” Anders felt his lips turn thin and curved, voice arching as sharp and cutting as that eyebrow of Alistair’s. “You popped by to check on her, make sure she had everything she needed did you? Or were you too ashamed of bringing her kidnapper back to Kirkwall and then trying to fuck her lover, on the floor of her study while she was _dying_ no less, to look her in the eyes?” 

The hand that had gripped his arm tightened for a moment and then fell away. Alistair covered his face with the broad palm, and shook his head, shoulders trembling. Was he laughing? The ass was laughing. He wiped the fingers down over his mouth, then tugged at the beard on his chin for just a moment. “I’ve been making myself sick worrying about her, worrying that she hates me, that she’ll never forgive me, that you are ill with the thought of me, that if you _told_ her we…” He floundered and shook his head sharply. “That.” 

“That? We that. That-ed, maybe?” 

“Maker you’re impossible, you stupid smug bastard.” 

“Mm. You’re the--” Anders found a hand gripping the front of his shirt, the back of his head stinging where it had rapped against the wall with the sudden shove that Alistair gave him. 

“Don’t. Not now. How… you were living with her, or did I get that wrong? Sharing her bed? You love her. How could you just leave her without saying anything at all?” The flare of anger that Anders felt at the return of the sudden questioning, the defensive prickle, faded when he saw how lost Alistair looked, eyes practically begging for something. Anders didn’t know what it was he wanted though. 

Every excuse that climbed to Anders’ lips were just that-- excuses. They were talking about Caralyn Hawke, the woman he had threatened to drown the entire city in blood for, the woman he was convinced he wouldn’t survive without once he let himself love her, and he had done exactly what Alistair said. Slipped away without explanation. His ears were ringing with the realization. He was so damn tired, and had been since the night of the Arishok’s death, and it had been _weeks_ and she had been alone. His eyes flicked back to Alistair’s pinched expression. They’d all been _alone_. Justice’s insistence that they return to their work, that she would be better off without Anders as a complication, it was all tangled with the remaining fear of her death, and the guilt of reaching for comfort, taking advantage of Alistair being so lost upon finding himself back in Kirkwall under the most absurd circumstances. 

Anders cleared his throat, trying to work moisture onto his tongue. “I think we’ve both been idiots.” 

Alistair’s eyebrows seemed to knot with incredulity. “Idiots? Us? Really?” He drawled the final word, shaking his head slowly. He glanced down at the fist still tangled in Anders’ shirt, sighed heavily and let go. His palm rested there for a moment a slight wince twitching his features. “Sorry about… that.” 

Now that Anders let himself truly look past the sun-warmed skin and the freckles, he could see that Alistair looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. When his hand dropped, Anders caught it without thinking, letting the briefest flash of magic pulse into him, though he barely had it to spare. Over-worked, sore muscles, bruises everywhere, and one cut across his shoulder blade that had been half-healed by a weak poultice of some kind. He eased what he could, but it wasn’t much. 

Hazel eyes widened and Anders felt that flush he began with creeping back. “Well. Then. We should probably talk?” 

“Talk. Right then. Talk. Talking. Us, yes, good.” Alistair cleared his throat, and at least he was pulling his arm back, and glancing up the hall. “Is this where we decide who gets ritually dismembered to appease the angry lady, or how much genuflecting will be required, or arm wrestling to see who gets thrown into the sea?” He lifted a hand and scrubbed it through his hair, the longer bits in front then falling forward, nearly into his eyes. It was guileless and distracting. 

“Mm. I… yes.” That seemed insurmountable, honestly. How could Hawke forgive him? He shifted and leaned his head back against the wall. “Maybe we could start with something easy, though? Like I could apologize for… that-ing you on the library floor?” His lips twitched in that deflecting, sly smile that seemed to come so easily when he needed to be sincere. 

“Maker’s Breath.” Alistair was blushing to the roots of his hair and he ducked his head. “Yes, fine. But I need another drink first.” He half-turned, waiting until Anders had pushed off the wall with a nod before he started back toward the common room. 

As Alistair disappeared around the corner a familiar-- a painfully, embarrassingly familiar cough brought Anders up short. He turned and saw Varric standing there, arms folded. 

“Varric, I was just coming to see--” 

“Fix it, Blondie. I’ve been keeping New Guy busy, trying to give you time to pull your head out of your ass, but this shit isn’t good.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thick finger, and then shook his head. “Even Aveline is worried, so fix it. She isn’t going to ask nicely.” 

Anders blinked once as Varric waved his hand, looking more than a little fed-up, and turned away. There was a ringing in his ears again as Justice pressed and gnashed, insisted that everything they had done was _better_ for everyone involved. They would only hurt Hawke, she was too distracting, there was nothing more important than the other mages, and for a moment Anders could feel her fingers in his hair holding his head steady and telling Justice to let him be. His eyes stung and his skin burned and metal and blood stung in his nose. He flung out a hand to find an anchor on the wall and squeezed his eyes shut when he saw the runnels of spirit fire opening in crags along the veins of his arm. 

Alistair was a warm, soothing presence, and Anders was suddenly aware he’d tracked back, had a hand on the back of his neck. “And we’re back to you and the scary glowing. Always a good sign. If you want to try pulling my head off again, we could go to the alley? Fewer people would get caught in the old artery spray.” His thumb was moving in slow circles just behind Anders’ ear The sensation put him back in his skin, let him feel his spine, the small hairs on his nape. He swallowed the sudden sick rush of saliva in his mouth. 

The burning blue-white haze was gone from his eyes when he blinked them open, looked up at Alistair’s worried face. “You should go to her, and just let me…” 

Alistair blinked, lips curving into an embarrassed grimace. “Or!” He gave a final squeeze of Anders’ neck and his fingers trailed away, though the heat of his touch remained. Anders wanted to tell him to wash that hand. “We can hatch a plan to get Caralyn on a boat and run away to Antiva!” 

Anders stared at Alistair as he shifted and dipped his head a little, looking almost boyish if not for the wry twist to his lips. “Antiva?” 

“You like Rivain better? You’re a mage, of course Rivain is better. But you have to admit, it’s a better plan than letting you go do whatever it is you’ve been doing.” His nose wrinkled slightly. “In a sewer, I'm guessing?” The smile that stole over his face then was a shadow, eyes shifting away, lips just barely turned up. “Come along then, I’ll buy you something to eat. Eating solves most problems.” 

“You were back with the Wardens too long.” 

“I do miss their cook staff.” He hummed softly for a moment as he turned. “And the cheese here is abominable.” 

Anders shook his head, trailing after Alistair, watching the awkward set of his shoulders, the way he kept half turning to look back and then flushing each time he did. How could he be so sardonic, so obviously wary, and so bloody _kind_ at the same time? No wonder Cara had turned herself inside out over him, and now Anders had made the biggest mess he could imagine for both of them. He rubbed his forehead, and focused on the wide shoulders, hoping that Hawke would forgive one of them, or both, or… Maker, he couldn’t possibly be hopeful for more. 

“Fix it.” He whispered the words under his breath as they reentered the noise of the common room. As quick, as easy as all that. Obvious, in fact. The only question was, _how?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a light at the end of the long, slow angst tunnel. Thank you so much for continuing to read. :)


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke appears in public as the Champion and makes some bad decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter! Featuring drunk Bad Decision Caralyn and a cameo by Kirkwall's Knight-Captain!

The dress was terrible. Laced tight, her tits pushed up, it pinched her whole midsection in a way that barely let her breathe, but was probably a gift of the Maker if she was going to have to stand for any period of time tonight. The ache in her back where the end of the Arishok’s sword had exited her body never really abated completely. At least the skirts, made to fit over a contraption of petticoats and some kind of ridiculous scaffolding that was too bulky and heavy for Hawke to support, were light. She’d get tripped by them if she had to run or fight, but she was going to a Hightown party… and shitballs. 

That did not make her feel any better. 

There had been, originally, some kind of cocked up shoulder poof but she’d made Orana take the sleeves off because it was too hot and if she needed to cast raising her arms above waist height was important. Hawke scowled at the wine-colored monstrosity in the mirror over the top of Orana’s head, who was trying to get the corseted bodice to sit right. 

“I’m so sorry, Mis- Lady Caralyn, you’re just thinner than when your mother, may the Maker watch over her, had it made.” The elf’s huge eyes flicked up at her, worry in her frown. But it wasn’t the _fear_ that Orana had come to her house with, and that at least was something. 

“I know, Orana, and it’s fine. I’m already the Champion.” The sigh came out all strangled, pure frustration. “It isn’t as if there’s anyone at this party I’m trying to impress.” Just a bunch of rich fuckwits. No one who actually mattered. Well, Aveline was going to be there. And she’d tried to convince Varric that as a deshyr of the Merchant’s Guild he should show the fuck up. He’d just chuckled and said he trusted the Champion to look out for his interests, the same way he looked out for hers. 

Whatever the void that meant. 

She wanted to rub her eyes or scratch her fingers along her scalp but the kohl had been applied and the heavy dark fall of her hair, finally showing thick and glossy instead of lank and brittle, had been piled into an artful tumble of braids and coils and loose curls. It was a Tevinter style, Hawke was sure since Orana had done it, and along with the parts of the dress that had to be altered or discarded in order to make something wearable out of her pre-injury closet, she looked a bit… shit she hated the word exotic. She was a fucking mage, an apostate, not a bird from Par Vollen with pretty feathers that tasted terrible if you tried to roast it. 

Her color was better, though still a bit washed out. Her mother would have approved of the fading of the freckles and the gentling of the copper undertones of Hawke’s skin because it meant she wasn’t scuttling up and down the coast killing bandits and spiders, while simultaneously hating the alterations to the dress. Of course if her mother were alive she would have been forced to eat every three hours while she was recovering from the Arishok’s blade instead of being surrounded by people who listened when she told them to fuck off. 

The clever fingers at her waist finished the hidden tuck and then tied off the thread that was to hold it all together, but would also be easily removed when Hawke was _feeling more herself_. “That will do. You look beautiful. It’s too bad you are going a--” Orana bit her lip to cut off that statement, her cheeks flushing a dark pink. 

Alone. Yeah, sad fucking Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, going to the reception, gala, or ball, or whatever this bullshit party for rich assholes who stood around and shrieked while their city was burning down was called, attending all alone. She had to swallow against the sudden shards of glass she felt like she had been gargling. “Well, you managed to make me look nothing like a scarecrow or a Chasind witch of the wilds.” She caught Orana’s eyes and wrinkled her nose as she attempted a smile. It felt foreign on her face, her voice slightly rough. “Thank you.” 

If anything,Orana’s blush deepened and she ducked her head, before adjusting the fall of the skirt to brush just so over the toes of Hawke’s slippers, and then straightened from the footstool she was seated on. All that remained was for her to help with the cape and hood that would keep off the rain that was threatening to return and then flutter around her like a worried hummingbird while Hawke made her way down the stairs. 

She was glad there would be a litter tonight, because all those void-taken stairs to the Viscount’s Keep were not happening. Going up and down the staircase in her house was torture enough, each step feeling like it was pulling at the scar in her middle, her breath coming harder, and feeling fainter, especially on the way up. She gripped the finial on the bottom of the banister hard when she reached it, trying to chase away the dizziness. Fuck this fucking party. Six weeks after she’d been chopped in half, and the Seneschal had sent about six thousand letters insisting they had to do as soon as possible. Best get it over with. 

Besides, if she could drag herself to a shitty reception celebrating her near-death and failure to save the Viscount, then maybe Aveline and Varric and Merrill would stop watching her from the corner of their eyes. She’d be well enough for them to leave her alone. 

It would be easier if she could just go back to starting fights in shithole taverns and drinking until she couldn’t remember what the fights were about. But it was nothing but Champion this, and Lady Hawke that, and she was still so tired all the time she wasn’t sure she could fight off one of the Doglords’ dogs, let alone a man with a sword.

She nodded at Bodhan as he handed her into the covered litter. She might have dozed as it swayed its way toward the Keep. She snapped with sparks of lightning when the curtain was pulled back, but it was only Aveline who poked her head in. 

“Hawke.” There was a wary pull to the taller woman’s mouth. 

“Guard Captain.” Hawke shook herself and refused the hand of the footman or Aveline as she stepped down. She grimaced at the small knot of pain that came with the thump of her foot onto the ground. 

“You still haven’t seen a healer about that?” The half-gauntlet that Aveline wore for this sort of thing left her palm bare and it was warm and dry on Hawke’s elbow as she helped her straighten. 

“There’s a nug-sized knot of scar tissue in there. I have enough healing to see it. There isn’t anything anyone can do about it.” She tugged her arm free as they crossed the threshold of the Keep and let the servants take the cloak from around her shoulders. 

“What about Anders?” 

“If Anders could fix it he would have done already. And he’s…” Hawke swallowed hard. Aveline knew that Anders had disappeared after Hawke was no longer in danger of dying. Everyone knew, Varric and Merrill and Carver and fucking Fenris. But Hawke wouldn’t ask about him beyond making sure that he was eating the food Orana took him. “Busy. Anders is busy.” Or disgusted with the fact he’d been bedding a lunatic murderer. 

“I’d have thought he’d check in on you, at least, especially since the rains stopped. No new outbreaks of flux, no buildings collapsed in three days.” 

“Well, maybe he died down there trying to help every person in this city I didn’t do enough to save! Maker’s balls, Aveline, leave off. I’m fucking fine.” She straightened her spine, wishing that she could shake off all the fear that she felt, that Varric’s assurances that both Anders and Alistair were _still around_ barely soothed. Not that she’d asked in at least a week. 

She still needed everyone to think she was well enough to leave her alone. 

The reception was about as awful as she expected. There were speeches from the Seneschal, from the Guard Captain, from some of the ranking rich assholes that had been witness to the duel and seemed on the verge of developing tremendously awkward erections while they breathlessly described her beauty and prowess and willingness to sacrifice all for Kirkwall. She snorted. Her eyes flicked over the crowd while they spoke and she locked her knees and forced herself not to wobble and failed to find a single face in the crowd that she’d sacrifice shit for. 

The Templars had sent Knight-Captain Cullen to frown at her while the rest of Kirkwall toasted her and her noble name. Cocking Templars. There was no grateful speech delivered on Meredith fucking Stannard’s behalf, which at least seemed honest. Hawke could appreciate the snub. 

All the droning eventually ended and there were refreshments and music, even dancing, and all around her the awkward tittering of nobles playing their pissy asslicking Game. A few people attempted to approach her, but most seemed content to marvel at how _novel_ it was to have a mage present, let alone some wild Fereldan-born apostate. She heard her mother’s name bandied around, always attached to the soppiest, most patronizing sentiments. 

“Poor Leandra Amell, all that breeding and so little sense...” 

“Leandra, Maker bless her kind, silly soul…” 

“Always such a beauty, that Leandra, and to think her daughter such a wild thing…” 

A wild thing. She was like a fox caught in a trap these days, shaking and panting, and ready to bite any hand that came near. Maybe if she chewed her own arm off she could get away from this fucking party?

It was a Comtesse recounting the amazing feats of magic the last time a Hawke had been present at such a soiree, (and Malcolm was entirely too handsome to be a maleficar, it was recalled), that drove Hawke to the abandoned terrace with a decanter of brandy that one of the servants had been too terrified to deny her. 

The heavy velvet curtains that hid the doors gave her fits, but once she was through they muffled the noise of the party. She was alone in the cold and the damp and managed to find a portion of the balustrade that she could half-sit on, nearly crying with relief as the change in posture caused her hips to pop and crack and the pain near her spine to ease just slightly. She took a large gulp of the liquor, ignoring how awkward it was to sip from the wide lip of the cut crystal, catching the dribble that escaped with the edge of her thumb. 

Maker, it had been a while since she’d drank herself numb, but if anything would drive her to do it was listening to stuffed doublets and out-of-fashion Orlesian half masks cluck and twitter about her dead parents. Her scalp tingled with heat almost before she could suck the drop off the pad of her thumb. She reached behind her neck, unfastening the high choking collar, letting the gauzy wrap that covered her decolletage, the top edge of the corset and the gauchely ample swell of her breasts fall. She gave it a sharp tug, popping the buttons that held it closed in the back, and the silk fluttered to the ground, almost melting in a puddle that had collected in a low spot, looking like nothing so much as a bloodstain in the shadows. Useless. The mist that was picking up toward rain felt like tiny needles of ice along her bare shoulders. It was ruining the dress and her hair anyway. She couldn’t be fucked to care. 

Caralyn Hawke, Lady Amell, Champion of Kirkwall, drinking alone in the garden like a adolescent escaping some terrible salon. 

She didn’t realize she’d muttered it aloud until a voice answered in a soft Ostwick lilt, “You know, I’m sure I’ve seen exactly that, somewhere before.” There was man in the doorway, the curtains still closed behind him. He glanced at the sky with a faint grimace, and shrugged the collar of his coat a little higher on his neck as he walked slowly toward her. The hair on Hawke’s arms was standing up, the startled catch of her breath dangerous and charged. “Of course you weren’t the Champion then, or _the_ Lady Amell, but you were using a napkin to hide a rather noticeable spot of my brother’s blood on your skirt, which was rather more entertaining.” 

“That right?” She mastered the grimace that tried to pull at her mouth as she straightened off her perch, shifting her feet so he wouldn’t be able to trap her against the railing. He was smiling, but that meant shit in Hawke’s experience. “I’ve had a lot of fucking blood on me lately, so you’ll have to be more specific.” 

He wasn’t overly tall, just a year or two younger than her, maybe Carver’s age, narrow-chested and a bit beaky, like he hadn’t finished filling out after his last lanky growth. Some men never did, maybe? But he had a laughing glint in his eyes. “Oh, well, this one you stabbed instead of…” He waved a hand vaguely. “Whatever it is you normally do. I heard it was a yards-long claymore of ice that you beheaded the Arishok with? But in my brother’s case it was a fork.” 

That startled a rough laugh from Hawke. There’d been a dinner soon after her mother had started trying to find some rich idiot to marry her off to that she hadn’t been quick witted enough to escape. Being backed up against a table of sweetmeats and canapes while one of those rich idiots had tried to drool in ear put her out of sorts. She may have stabbed a rich idiot with a fork. “He really deserved that.” 

“I don’t doubt it. Max doesn’t do well with pretty women and too much wine.” The young noble in front of her with his russet hair and high collared coat could have been any one of a dozen noble bastards or younger brothers. Including Sebastian Vael’s. Well maybe not a Vael, not without a touch more refinement to his mouth, and a generally broader cut of his shoulders. 

She felt a sudden uneasy gladness he wasn’t particularly handsome. 

Hawke took another drink of the brandy and held it out to her visitor, feeling the flush in her cheeks chasing away the chill, and the growing flush in her veins easing the aching emptiness in her chest, as well as the knots of pain behind her scar. “And you do better?” 

His eyebrows raised, but he took the decanter with a bemused glance behind him. “Not really, but I’m also not fond of being stabbed.” He sipped the brandy carefully, managing not to slosh it down his front, though he still wiped a drop or two from the close-trimmed goatee that covered his chin. 

“You are sniffing around the wrong fucking woman then, little lord.” Hawke took the brandy back, took another drink, and then set it aside on the wide stone rail beside her. She ran her tongue over her lower lip and then tipped her head to the side, eyes narrowing as she tried to find the focus to properly study him. 

“Ben.” The grin he flashed was almost charming, but he wasn’t easy in it. It looked like as much of a mask as the more Orlesian families wore. 

“What?” 

There was a flush in his cheeks as he ducked his head and reached past her for the decanter. “Benedict. Or Ben.” He met her eyes as he took another dainty sip. She remembered his family, his clod of a brother. Her mother had been deeply offended that she stabbed anyone at that party, let alone someone from an old, large family. 

_Toast of Ostwick, despite their unfortunate circumstances._ That’s what Leandra Amell had called them. Which meant mages in their line. 

“Did you lose some kind of bet, Ben? See who could run up and touch the scary fucking mage without getting eaten by a demon?” She watched his face turn ruddy and his smile tighten. She bared her teeth in something that probably looked nothing like a smile. “Oh, sorry, got that wrong. Run up and fuck the scary mage without getting eaten by a demon.” 

He shook his head, looking down at the brandy still held in his hands. “You aren’t like any mage I’ve ever met.” She watched him wet his lips with his tongue, smile turned nervous and lopsided. 

She arched her eyebrow at him. She hadn’t known many men who tried that tack. Not enough of them had known she was an apostate when they’d attempted their seduction. She snorted. Was he seducing her?

“My sister is a mage, and she’s… well she’s at the Circle in Ostwick. Not anything like you.” He startled when she reached out and grabbed for the decanter, her fingers sliding along the backs of his. They were probably smooth, barely with the strength to hold a sword. He’d certainly never killed anyone, and while he’d plainly heard stories of the Champion, and apparently witnessed rude, uncouth, mad Caralyn Hawke, he’d only seen her with blood under her nails once, and as she recalled it wasn’t enough to go soaking through her shoes. 

“Small piece of advice?” His eyes shifted from where he was staring at her hand still touching his to her face. They were a bright blue, one of those strange Marcher colors that she never got used to seeing, nearly teal. She took the heavy crystal from him, took a long gulp of the brandy, and then set it back on the balustrade. “Never mention your sister to a girl you’re hoping will suck your cock.” 

That sparked something in his eyes, and he stepped forward, a hand coming up to brush a curl, damp, falling in with the weight of the mist, off her cheek. His fingers almost didn’t tremble. Or maybe the dizzy swim of her eyes trying to focus so close made any lapse in his steadiness hard to see. She saw well enough to grab his wrist and tug him forward, bringing his hand to settle on the side of her breast. 

“What are you doing?” His voice was a little rough, mostly breathless. Thank the Maker he didn’t squeak. His eyes widened and he moved as she pulled him, pressing his body up against hers. 

“Isn’t this what you came out here for?” It wasn’t what she’d exited the party for, but with the brandy in her blood and the aching, gnawing hole in her chest, she didn’t care. Sometimes a simple fix to a simple problem. A hole could be filled. It wasn’t fucking complicated. 

He wasn’t tall enough that he had to hunch when he lowered his face to hers, nor did she have to stretch. She turned her cheek when his lips tried to meet hers, one hand moving to press his head down to her throat. The other slid down to cup his cock through his breeches. His mouth opened, hot, teeth scraping against her skin as he gasped when she squeezed. 

The weight of him pushed her back against the railing, a thud across her tailbone that caused a spasm of pain, a slight arch and whimper that he took for encouragement and his second hand rose to her other breast, both of them gripping and clumsy, finding little purchase over the corset, fumbling in their attempt to dig under it, but her skin was slow and stupid with lack and alcohol and that numb hollow in her middle where she refused to look, refused to wonder, because she knew the answer, how she’d lost her family, lost Anders, lost Alistair. 

Topher’s rigid screaming dead face, own fingers wet with his own blood. 

The Viscount’s empty eyes in his rolling head tumbled at her feet. 

The greasy dark smoke that made the sunsets unnatural pink from the pyres of all the dead to Qunari swords and tainted water and failing foundations. 

His fingers bit into her arms and he tried to lift her, but there was little strength there, nothing like what she’d come to want, to miss. Even Anders, ropey-muscled rail of a mage that he was would have been able to manage that short hop. Instead she had to shift and squirm until her ass was up on the railing. 

He settled between her legs, trying to rub against her, all the frothy silk of her skirts now damp and tangling between them. One of his hands moved to shove at it, get it up over her knees, get his laces opened. She let her head hang back for a moment, looking up at the wet leaves and the darkness beyond. His teeth bit into her collar bone in frustration, hard enough to mark. 

It didn’t matter. She hooked one of her feet around his hip, urging him on, his mouth falling lower on the tops of her breasts, licking and sucking, and there was no way he was going to find the bottom hem of her gown without her help and instead of frustration it was a relief. Her eyes were stinging looking for stars where there were none, just heavy clouds, full of rain. 

“Hawke, are you--” Aveline’s voice broke off and there was a series of quick, heavy bootfalls and suddenly Benedict was plucked up by the back of his coat, looking like a scruffed kitten, toes of his boots barely scraping the stones beneath them for a moment. 

“Maker’s cock, Aveline.” Hawke pushed off the railing, back onto her feet, and glared up at the taller woman. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Aveline ignored the question, ignored the suddenly red-faced and trembling young man she was practically strangling with his own formal wear, eyes skipping over Hawke, narrowing a bit as she glanced at the brandy decanter. She shook her head, mouth twisted in a sour grimace, and dropped the young lord, before turning and stalking… no, stomping away. 

“Aveline!” Hawke stood there, fingers gripping the stonework to steady her suddenly shaking knees, cheeks burning in a way that she didn’t expect. She was a cocking adult. And she’d been about to fuck a stranger on the terrace above the Keep garden, which honestly wasn’t the most ridiculous place she’d ever fucked a stranger. Aveline disappeared back inside, the light and noise of the ballroom shut out again by the fall of the heavy drapes that hid the door. 

“Are you well, my lady?” Benedict’’s fingers brushed her shoulder and Hawke flinched away, striking his wrist with the back of her hand. The smooth pads of his fingers felt like worms slipping over her damp skin now. She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sudden burning rise of her gut full of brandy. 

Unsteady on her feet, she managed to take a step away, chin tucked and eyes narrowed at him. She didn’t need his false chivalrous bullshit making her remember Alistair’s reflexive kindness or Anders’ fretful care. She didn’t need any of the shame at Aveline’s worry falling into disappointment. She had wanted to be alone, for fuck’s sake. She shook her head slowly. “Don’t touch me.” It was a warning, for his sake, but the way it struggled past her teeth it sounded like a threat.

The young lord stared at her for a long moment and then shook his head slowly. “You really are as bloody crazy as they say.” 

Yes, the mad, mannerless Champion, a Fereldan doglord pissing on their shoes. How many of the nobles gathered in the Keep this night to applaud her brutality against the Arishok would have been relieved if the Templars had taken her off to the Gallows despite her victory? She called up the tingling chime that had killed him and let it snap, her magic focused in a small blade of ice held tight in her fingers. “You still want to get stabbed like your big brother? Because we can arrange that you smarmy little prick.” 

His hands raised and he took a quick step back. “No, Maker, no, I do not want to get stabbed. I’m sorry, Champion, and I should probably…” He took another step away from her, eyes fearful and darting between her piddling little ice knife that was already dripping down her wrist and the door that Aveline had disappeared through. 

“Yeah, you really, really should.” The tremble in her voice was from the shaking nerves, and not the shame, or the aching emptiness, or anything else that Hawke completely refused. Not fear, or bloodlust, or anything else. Just… no. 

He shot her one last incredulous, disgusted sort of glance and disappeared back to the party, likely to spread tales of fucking the wild apostate Champion, of her suddenly turning on him. Maybe in his stories he held her down and finished inside her while she snarled and tried to bite him. She was shivering, twitching all over, suddenly cold and dizzy, and sick in her stomach as well as her heart. 

The ground was hard and the mist was resolving into proper rain, but Hawke sank down rather than fall over. Maker it hurt, the bodice pinching and refusing to let her bend, but she didn’t want to faint. She sat there, too straight, legs bent to the side, hands pressed to her eyes where the cosmetics Orana had so carefully applied was almost certainly smearing from the moisture that was not from tears. It was just rain, and she pulled up a corner of her skirt to wipe it away, wipe the blurring from her vision, and she started to cry. 

When was the last time she cried? The long, aching, press of sobs that kept the air from her lungs? She wasn’t sure. Not since she’d awoken alone in her bed without surprise, without shock. There were no tears for the resigned certainty that if Anders had chosen to leave it had only been a matter of time, and it would be wrong to convince him otherwise, that if Alistair had seen her too clearly when she murdered Topher, that she couldn’t fault him for not wanting to fall back into her arms, and what the fuck was she supposed to do with them, the two of them, anyway? 

She was folded instead of bent, face pressed into two fistfuls of her skirt, keening around a mouthful of heavy, wet silk, wanting nothing so much as to have her mother there to pull her hair back, and kiss her temple, and promise her that hearts ached, that’s what they did, and that love was worth it. It wasn’t something she would have said in Kirkwall, not since fleeing Ferelden. But once upon a time, Leandra Hawke had told her fierce, storm-spirited child, that fighting for those she loved, to keep them safe, to let them know they were her own, was exactly why the Maker had given her so much strength. 

Strength? She couldn’t remember what that felt like, but she could remember thinking she was strong. 

The noise of the party swelled as the door opened again. Aveline come back? But it was a man’s voice that stammered, “Well. I. Ah.” Was everyone just going to wander out onto the closed terrace?

“Oh for fuck’s… Go away.” Hawke mumbled without looking up, without pausing much in her weeping. 

“Champion?” The voice was firmer now, concerned, familiar. Footsteps drew closer and Hawke peeled her skirt off her face to glare up at Cullen, well of course it was the Knight-Captain, as he dropped to a crouch just out of arm’s reach from her. 

“Oh good it’s you. Did that little shitlord tell you I’m an abomination because Aveline interrupted his spectacular failure to get his prick inside me?” She watched the blush creep up his cheeks, his eyes dipping away from her face for a moment. “You here to arrest me, Ser?” 

“Lord Trevelyan? Ah. No… he was rather coarse when speaking of you, and after the Guard Captain had him escorted from the reception for disorderly… well.” Cullen’s hand had shifted to rub the back of his neck. “I had wanted to give you Ser Carver’s regrets he was not able to attend, and... “ He looked supremely uneasy as his eyes skipped over Hawke’s neck and then away again. “But it might have been for the best.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, Knight-Captain, Carver would’ve killed me, and ignored whatever-the-fuck his name was.” Hawke ran a hand over her face then let it fall onto her lap and stared down into it. “No one has ever seen my failings more clearly than my brother.” 

“From the way he speaks of you, he sees more than just your failings.” Cullen’s gaze shifted away when Hawke glanced up to peer incredulously at him. 

“Carver talks about me? To fucking Templars?” She could taste the sour notes of fear in her own spit, the rise of the bile again. 

“He speaks of his sister. And I might remind you, he is a Templar. And at this point, there isn’t a single one of us that doesn’t know your secret, Champion.” There was a discomfited twitch at the corner of Cullen’s mouth before he sighed. “It’s raining, and you’re without a cloak. Can I… escort you back inside?” Cullen reached out a hand, offering it to Hawke and she stared into it. “Hawke?” 

She let her face crinkle as she glanced back up at the Templar and shook her head, feeling so tired of a sudden. “I’m truly rubbish at all this.” 

She let her hand fall heavily into his and bit her lip as he pulled her to her feet, trying not to whimper in pain. He let her go immediately, hand rubbing on the leg of his pants in an absent, fretful motion. Why did that surprise her, let alone sting? He didn’t even appear aware of having done it. 

“All this?” 

“Yes. All this Champion stuff. It’s nugshit. Bronto piss. Fucking hurlock ballsweat. I don’t know how to do any of it. I am an apostate, made for running and hiding. Killing bandits and slavers and blood mages. Not for talking circles around nobles and laughing behind fans and sitting still. Making nice with Templars?” She shook her head. 

“If I may, Champion…” 

“You keep calling me that you might actually believe you shouldn’t be arresting me right now, Cullen.” 

He grimaced and continued. “You have always had your…” He huffed out a breath as he searched for the word. “People around you. I’ve seen you walk into the Gallows with two other apostates and a notorious thief and smuggler as if you were untouchable. You have never seemed out of your depth, Hawke. Not until now.” He glances at the conspicuously empty terrace around her. 

“That was all just--” 

“Druffalo arse?” 

The wry twist to his lips surprised her and she almost laughed, would have if she didn’t need to press a hand over her scar and steady her breathing. “I was going to say bravado, but yeah, same thing.” 

“No, I--” He exhaled through his nose, glancing over his shoulder. “I am not comfortable with the idea of free mages, of apostates loose in this city, and you have a reputation that is both volatile and bloody.” 

“You making a run at the fuck-the-Champion pool tonight, Cullen? You sweet talking cunt-tease.” She tried to feel pleasure or victory at the flush that stained his cheeks but it seemed too easy. 

“I’m attempting to tell you that I think your… bravado… as you put it came from a specific kind of competence. Or strength?” He shook his head, brown eyes fixing on hers for a moment. “Whatever it was, if I were you, thrust into a position of authority in a city that is not… kind or easy… I would not choose to do it alone. If the choice was available to me to do otherwise.” 

Hawke studied Cullen’s face, the way he was looking away into the dark garden, his ridiculous hair curling tighter and starting to fall in the rain, eyes distant. She wanted to hate him for presuming so much, but… he wasn’t wrong. And he had the look of a man that hadn’t had that choice. “I killed Alrik.” 

His eyes flew back to her face, eyebrows raising, hand flinching to where his sword should hang. He swallowed visibly when she took a step closer. 

“That was me. And my friends.” 

The muscles in his jaw were twitching. She hoped he didn’t crack a tooth the way he was clenching his mouth. 

“You still think my _bravado_ is a good thing, _Knight-Captain_?” He was tall and she was inside his space. She could feel the thrum of lyrium around him, the song-but-silent pull of the Fade as his mouth thinned further. Not as tall as Anders, not as tall as Alistair, but still tall, and it looked like all he could do not to retreat as she stood there, glaring up at him. “Or maybe you know why I killed that child-raping piece of rotting blight-offal, and you’re just glad that there’s someone in this town with enough balls to clean up even your fucking messes, hmm?” 

The shift of his expression was hard for Hawke to read. His eyes unfocused for a moment and she could see his mouth tremble just a touch, skin gone pale around it. When he his gaze met hers again it was full of pain. Or shame? Fury, certainly.

“If you are recovered, I should return to the Gallows.” Cullen took a quick, clipped step back, bowed in a shallow salute, arms crossed over his chest. He started to turn but caught himself, paused. His throat worked as he swallowed again and finally murmured, “The Order suffered no loss with Alrik’s death. I… in answer to your question, the first one, yes. Champion.” He spun and strode away, bootheels clicking sharply on the cobbles of the terrace. 

Hawke felt lightheaded, the brandy and the confession to Alrik’s murder fizzing and buzzing in her skin. Cullen had nearly _thanked_ her for putting him down. She rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead and took slow steps toward the terrace doors. 

Bravado. It was all she had her first year in Kirkwall, working for Meeran. It and a dwarf with _plans_ the second. Cullen was right, she had lost it somewhere along the way. It was all fear, and fatalism, and giving up, giving in to loss. She’d been able to reach for things, claim a place above her station as Fereldan, refugee, apostate. Even laboring under the burden of Bethany’s death she had fought and _won_ a place for her mother in Hightown, and a near-family of… wonderful fools, as ridiculous and broken as she was. 

She stumbled a little over the threshold, ignored the shocked glances of the nobles and servants that noticed her sodden, disheveled return to the reception, and started looking for someone to find her cloak and show her to the door. She needed to leave, but the last place on Thedas she wanted to be was alone in her tomb of a house. 

The stairs to Lowtown were steep and dark, full of memories and fear, and each careful step down _hurt_ but for the moment, for right now, it felt, finally, like a pain that meant something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. She isn't going to get kidnapped this time. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, commenting, and caring about my ridiculous disaster. 
> 
> OT3 snuggles soon, I promise. :)


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair and Anders try to talk and are interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been less than a week since the last update but have a new chapter. I'm sorry I didn't get around to answering comments on the last one, but they all inspired me to get a move on with this one, so that's sort of an answer?

There weren’t many times in Alistair’s life he’d felt truly, _truly_ stupid. Despite what the Chantry sisters said, he’d never really found his own wits lacking, no matter how many times they’d told him _a smart mouth is the sure sign of an empty head_. 

It was just one of those things that people said to children who stole cheese and blurted out the funny things that everyone was thinking. Maybe he hadn’t been the child with the steadiest commitment to common sense, especially in the face of being sent to bed without supper at the monastery or being switched by the cook in Redcliffe. But he wasn’t stupid. 

Looking from the corner of his eyes at Anders’ drawn, grey face, as he steered him onto a bench in the common room at the Hanged Man, he wondered if he’d been wrong about that. Plainly he’d been wrong about his plan to wait for Caralyn or Anders to come looking for him. His hands kept clenching into fists until his knuckles ached. He rolled his shoulders and went to find Norah. Food, ale, talk. To Anders. Who looked like he was made of sticks and leaves and a truly filthy shirt and one hard glance might knock him over or bring Justice out to pop Alistair’s head off. 

And the last time he’d talked to the spirit they’d been getting along so well, agreeing to do right by Caralyn, save her from the Wardens, because it was just.

He lowered himself into the seat adjacent to where Anders was a pile of rags and feathers. Maker’s breath, the sight of him made Alistair’s gut clench and his heart hurt and his throat close. If he hadn’t been so content to just _wait_. 

Maybe waiting would have worked if he hadn’t been waiting on two of the maddest people he’d ever known, neither of them with any sense of self-preservation. For weeks he’d been putting out literal fires, and hauling actual corpses, digging out rubble, lifting what felt like entire buildings, all day and then after dark swinging his sword at looters and thugs, knocking skinny boys with gaunt cheeks on their arses with his shield, telling them he’d send Aveline Vallen round to have a chat with their mothers, all of it until his arms were numb, his head was empty, and he could sleep without the guilt of kissing, clinging, tugging hands, drunk mouths climbing his throat and chasing him through his dreams. He’d been giving space because he’d forced himself where he didn’t belong on the strength of his want to belong somewhere, and while he did that Anders was working himself to death, and Caralyn… who knew what state she was in? 

And Anders had apologized to him. Plainly there was guilt at their drunk fumble going around but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to regret? Time lost? Lies of omission? He forced himself to loosen his hands as Norah approached and set down the tray with a thump and a slosh. 

“Haven’t seen you in here for a dog’s age. Bet you been busy with all the… everything.” 

“You could say that.” Anders took a drink of the ale offered, wrinkling his nose at it. 

“And how’s Hawke? We ain’t seen her neither. Too chuffed up as Champion for Lowtown?” Norah put a hand on her hip, shifting her weight, eyes sharp as they skipped over Anders’ unkempt face. 

“She’s…” Anders shifted and shook his head. “Getting stronger, still healing.” His voice fell, almost inaudible. “I hope.” 

The way his whisper cracked made Alistair shift, discomfort drawn in a line straight through him. 

“Well. Least she’s got the best healer in Kirkwall, hmm?” Norah looked a little skeptical as she glanced from Anders’ drawn face to Alistair and back. She managed a wink before she trundled off. 

Alistair picked up the spoon that Norah had left with the bowl of exciting and mysterious brownish grey and used his shirt to wipe it where it had rested on the table. He put it into Anders’ slack hand, and gave his arm a nudge. The stiffness of his features rippled, eyebrows drawing together in pain.

Taking them both off to Rivain was seeming like a better and better idea. Easier than talking, probably. He found himself staring down at his hands where they were laced around the mug that Norah had placed in front of him. He took a drink of the ale and shook his head to clear away the taste that never, ever failed to remind him of stumbling into the alley with Caralyn when she’d just been a stranger who smelled nice.

It was Anders who finally spoke, still just holding the spoon, having eaten nothing so far. He looked angry though when Alistair looked up, amber eyes narrowed slightly at him. “Maker, Alistair, just…” There was a tight thread of frustration, a sour note in Anders voice. “It isn’t as if you’re the first man in the world to get drunk and be stroked off by a friend. Or acquaintance. Or a romantic rival, probably.” 

“What?” He heard the words, but they didn’t follow. Romantic… what?

Anders was studying him, frowning, eyes narrowing further as he did. It faded from anger to something confused. “You were so quiet. I thought you were actually waiting on that apology I--” 

“Yes, yes an apology is definitely what I was waiting for. Not for you to eat something and stop looking like you’re about to actually die.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, grabbing a handful of it, and suddenly feeling so angry he welcomed the pain in his scalp from the short frustrated tug. “I know I’m not _special_. I… it was… it was it. Maker’s breath, I thought I was over this when I learned how to kiss women’s… nevermind. The point is, you are my- my friend. And doing that with a friend who happens to be the lover of a woman that I… well. It’s confusing, and if it made things worse, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t bad. It isn’t.” And none of that was what he wanted to say, none of the words or feelings holding still, not sure what was welcome. 

Anders watched him without expression, tapping the spoon in slow, light clicks against the rim of his bowl of brown, still untasted.

“You could say something.” Alistair’s stomach was a knot tied around a stone that was much larger than he could lift. It was going to drag him down straight through the floor. He didn’t know what Anders would say. He didn’t know what he wanted him to say. He wanted. But what he wanted was looking more selfish, more impossible by the moment. He shook his head, flush deepening as he glanced away. He was not a smart man. 

Anders opened his mouth, to speak, or to finally take a bite of the terrible stew, Alistair would never know, because someone called out, “Healer!” and his focus skewed sideways. 

It turned out trying to feed Anders in the common room of the Hanged Man while expecting to have any sort of sensible conversation had been a terrible idea on Alistair’s part. In the grand scale of terrible-Alistair-ideas, it wasn’t the worst. He could probably go with _falling in love with Elissa Cousland_ as number one. Somewhere down the list, but not far, was probably _Caralyn Hawke is doing just fine without him_. He hadn’t decided where to settle _a drunk fumble on the floor couldn’t hurt_. 

He ran a hand through his hair as the third old man with gout and only half his teeth interrupted Anders’ attempt to shovel half his bowl of stew into his mouth at one go. “Healer, do you have a moment?” 

The weariness never left Anders’ face, but his eyes changed focus, sharpening, and he looked _attentive_ when he shifted on the bench to look up at the leathery faced codger. “What’s troubling you, Arvid?” He seemed to know the names of half the town. Or maybe just the poorest and most wretched among them. 

The symptoms that Old Man Arvid started to list seemed… longstanding to Alistair. Anders was about to starve to death on the bench while Old Man Arvid complained that the click in his knee was back and there’d been a ringing in his ears since the explosions when the Qunari attacked. 

And Anders just sat there patiently, nodding occasionally. One of his hands was clenched around his spoon still, and the other was plucking at the worn fabric of his trousers. Alistair glanced from the nervous pinching at the whiskered threads to Anders’ gaunt face and back and when his hand fell to the table, interrupting Old Man Arvid’s rambling about the fungus under his toenails with a resounding crack of his broad palm hitting the tacky wood, half the room startled. 

He felt the heat climbing back into his cheeks under Anders’ surprised eyes and the old man’s narrowing gaze. “You dug my niece out the cellar under that dockside flop when the whole thing caved in.” It almost sounded like an accusation. 

Alistair hoped the beard was covering most of the flush as he shrugged his shoulders and ran fingers through his hair. “I… yes? Maybe. Was she the one who hit me with her shoe when I wouldn’t carry her instead of the girl with the broken leg?” 

Arvid snorted softly. “No, that’d be my cousin. Right then. Good to see you ‘bove ground, Healer. Have a good night.” And just like that he shuffled off, leaving Alistair frowning and Anders staring at him while his ears began to burn.

“What was that?” 

“What was what?” 

One corner of Anders mouth twitched and he looked down into the bowl of grey gravy with brownish lumpy bits and stirred it once. “You’re impossible.” 

“Oh? Were you enjoying listening to the story of that summer fourteen years ago when a mule kicked him in the arse and his front tooth fell out?” Alistair tsked, leaning away from the table and then standing. “I’ll just go find him so he can finish. Wouldn’t want you to always wonder whether he recovered from that injury.” 

“You’re mothering me. It’s absurd and gallant and adorable in the face of… everything.“ He waved his spoon vaguely and then shrugged, and the smile that twitched his mouth was too tired for Alistair to tell if it was the sharp one. 

“That isn’t- Maker’s breath. I can’t tell if you’re being snide or not.” Alistair plucked at Anders’ shoulder. He frowned down at the small pinch of feathers that came loose, then dropped them, shaking his head. “Come on then.” 

“What? I thought feeding me was the most important thing to ever happen?” Anders gestured at bowl that had a greasy sheen developing. That was a bad sign in Alistair’s experience. You wanted to eat it before it congealed and felt like it was trying to climb back up. 

“Well, yes, and maybe a bath running close second, but I’ve a room-- well I’m borrowing a room I guess, and you can do both without it being ‘Healer I have a pimple’ and ‘oh Healer my hair hurts’ and ‘please Healer my cat is caught in a tree’.” There was a reason Alistair hadn’t suggested it straight away, and it only had a little to do with the thought of being alone with him where he slept. And dreamed. 

Anders looked disgruntled, and then smirked, shaking his head. “Fine.”

Something loosened at the smirk, at Anders’ agreement. He ignored the prickling under his skin, settling his shoulders and trying to chase away any of the flush that remained. He needed to get Anders on stable footing again before they went to check on Caralyn, but he also needed to know he hadn’t ruined everything. 

He’d had plenty of completely sodden trysts over the years, each of them chasing after even a whisper of all the meaning and promise that he thought he’d felt with Elissa. Maker, he’d met Caralyn during one of the more embarrassing ones of his life. And she’d changed everything, the spark, the want, the truculence and the snarl and surprising sweetness. Then Anders, with his even more surprising kisses and confusion that night in Ostwick, and weeks of dreaming. He rarely prayed anymore and if the Maker did hear them he wasn’t sure what He’d be thinking about this sort of prayer. 

The damned flush was back. 

He scrubbed his fingers through his beard, asked Norah to send additional food to his borrowed room, and glanced back to where Anders had managed to gulp the bowl of stew down while he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t until those amber eyes met his that he realized he was smiling at the other man. He was a fool.

When they neared the door Anders huffed a soft chuckle. “Isn’t this Isabela’s room?” His eyebrows were raised and there was far more sparkle in his eye than the scarecrow man that had stumbled into the inn an hour before. 

“Well, yes.” Alistair ran his fingers over his scalp, tugging at the hair that was getting too long at the back of his head. “Varric said she’d be back eventually. And. Well, Corff might give it away if no one was using it? So.” 

“So?”

Alistair took a deep breath and opened the door, pushing it wide and gesturing Anders through. “So.” 

He hadn’t been spending too much time here beyond sleeping and the occasional wash. It was certainly bigger than his old room, and its appointments were… ample. He grimaced a little, glancing over at Anders’ widening eyes. 

“It looks like a terrible novel set in a Tevinter seraglio got possessed by a desire demon and then threw up everywhere.” Anders plucked at a sheer silk drape hanging on a thin rope obscuring one wall. It was a deep vermillion. There were gold dragons embroidered on it. Some of the dragons seemed to be engaged in mating stoops even though Alistair was pretty sure that dragons didn’t mate aerially. The males not having wings and all.

It was like that everywhere one looked, honestly. Drapes and tassels and plush cushions in piles in corners. Silk. Gilt. More than occasionally suggestive in motifs and patterns. 

“Andraste’s knickers, what is that?” Anders was pointing at the painted screen that divided the room, laughing in incredulity. 

“Blasphemous. Obscene. Probably illegal in most of the nations under the Divine.” Alistair grimaced as he let himself really look at the complicated scenario that he was fairly certain was meant to depict Andraste sans knickers enjoying the company of both her husbands. 

“Well, Maferath was jealous of the Maker’s something, apparently.” There were deep crinkles of laughter around Anders eyes. “I knew Isabela was fond of booty, but I didn’t think her idea of booty relied quite this heavily on double entendre.” 

“For that woman this seems positively restrained.” He rolled his eyes when Anders grin split wider. “Varric offered this room as some sort of elaborate punishment comprised of inadvertent suggestive puns, didn’t he?” 

Anders peeked around the screen. “There’s a bloody bathtub in here. The Hanged Man doesn’t have a bath. Everyone knows that.” He turned to stare at Alistair. 

“As near as I can tell she won exclusive use of it for a week years ago in a game of Wicked Grace, and then just moved in. That’s what Varric said, anyway. He might have been lying.” He scratched idly at his throat, looking at the ceiling, for a moment before nodding toward the screen. “Bath’s yours if you want it.” 

The lank hair that fell into Anders’ face as he looked down at himself likely hadn’t seen water, let alone soap in weeks. The man’s clothes should probably be burned. Alistair’s chest ached at how lost he looked, eyes gone out of focus, lips moving silently. 

“Anders?” 

He flinched at Alistair’s voice, eyes shutting and then nodded, stepping behind the screen, already stripping out of his coat with mechanical motions. 

There was the creaking of the pump that pulled water from a cistern. If anything told Alistair that some portion of Varric’s story was true it was the fact that there was a pump to fill the copper tub and the floor was stone flags underneath all the rugs. He wondered how Isabela had convinced someone to bring a bed into the room. He’d tried to decline when Varric suggested he use it, doubly hard when the dwarf let him in. Varric had been adamant, insisting that Isabela would be back, and she’d keelhaul or gully or do something else piratey to him if he let anyone touch her stuff. 

“I would be touching her things?” Alistair had pointed out. 

“And by the time she shows back up you might deserve whatever she decides to do to you.” Varric could be very ominous when he wanted. Seeing the state that Anders was in and hearing that between the two of them they’d left Caralyn alone all this time, he was fairly sure he deserved a gullying. Whatever that meant. 

There was an end to the creak of the pump and then the faint tingle of magic and he could see steam rise from above the screen. “So handy, magic. When I want warm water I have to use the kettle and the fireplace.” 

“There have to be some benefits. If it was all fear of demons and hatred and being hunted for being born a certain way, I can’t imagine any mages would want to survive to adulthood.” Anders’ voice was a brittle mumble. 

Alistair sighed, looking down at his hands as he sat on the edge of Isabela’s bed. He didn’t have anything witty or flippant to say to that. Not when Anders was scraped so thin. As his silence stretched, searching for something to say, Anders continued. 

“Hot running water: the Circles’ great honeytrap. I know I was grateful enough for it that I wept when they let me out of the solitary cells.” Water splashed and then Anders sniffed. “This soap smells less like an Orlesian lady’s boudoir than I expected.” 

“How many Orlesian lady’s boudoirs have you sniffed?” 

“More than you’d expect.” More splashing, the sound of scrubbing and Alistair was a bad man imagining those long, straight fingers scrubbing over Anders’ pale skin. 

The image was shut away quickly, too twisted with the sick ache of guilt in his gut. He didn’t know why he’d suggested this. He should go back to the common room while Anders bathed, should have just hauled him back to Caralyn’s house and tossed him through the front door. He shook his head, trying to swallow past the lump that was building low in his throat and the way it felt like hunger, the want to see her. “Why didn’t Varric tell me?” 

“I don’t think he knows any specifics about my experiences in boudoirs.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on that. But also, not what I meant.” He stood, pacing slowly, hands flexing and clenching into fists and then releasing in measured tempo with his footfalls.

“You mean about Hawke?” 

“And you.” That slipped out, soft and unguarded, and Anders was silent for a long while. “Both of you. Not together, I-- I figured that out on my own. But since that night. He could have mentioned that she was alone and you were doing an impersonation of a potato rotting in an abandoned root cellar.” 

That earned him a snort. “You can’t impersonate a potato. A potato isn’t a person.” 

“You fooled me.” The silence stretched again. Was Anders just going to ignore most of his questions? Was he struggling with Justice still? Had he fallen asleep. “Are you asleep?” 

“What? No, I was… thinking about some things Varric’s said to me recently. He’s a very particular kind of romantic. I think he was hoping… well it doesn’t matter. You know, I know, she’s the one who doesn’t know.” There was an audible wince in his voice. “We have to tell her about that night.” 

“Might be safer not to mention it.” He didn’t mean it. Alistair knew they had to tell her. It would be one portion of the mountainous apology he owed her. Anders snorted again and there was more splashing, water being poured. Probably from the ridiculous ewer that was covered in cavorting women all wearing masks, half seeming to sport some kind of tied-on phallus. 

“You’re good at getting stabbed. You’ll live.” 

“Right. Best supply her with sharp objects to avoid screaming myself to death while clawing out my own eyes.” He froze as soon as the words were out, eyes squeezing closed, wishing he could have them back. He didn’t want to think about Topher’s death, another part of that apology. 

“Don’t.” 

“I didn’t--” 

“You did.” 

Alistair lapsed into silence. He didn’t know what to say to make it right, make conscripting Topher into the Wardens right. He fell back into a slump on the end of the bed. “How did it happen? You and Caralyn? I know I don’t have the right to ask, but I need… I just want to know…” 

“She didn’t forget you, if that’s what you’re after.” Anders’ voice softened, the sounds of the water being drained from the tub nearly drowning it out. “It was your fault, actually.” 

His fault. For being foolish in his refusal to play Elissa’s game, for getting Caralyn stolen away from her home, hurt? “You’re welcome?” 

That dragged a short chuckle from Anders before the pump started squeaking again. “I told her that I’d kissed you goodbye and she demanded that I kiss her the same way. And something that I’d been avoiding for a very long time was suddenly impossible to avoid.” 

The damn blush was back, burning in his cheeks and he could see the way that must’ve looked, Caralyn angry and flushed, full of demands, and Anders leaning down, and what might have started as tender suddenly blazing while both of them were thinking about _him_. His mouth was dry at the thought. Maker’s breath, what was wrong with him?

“She was falling to pieces, and the only way I could find to keep her whole was to hold her. I… it wasn’t my intention, ever. It was never a good idea, nevermind what I felt, and now that she’s the Champion of this bloody city, it’s outright madness.” There was that tingle, the faintest wisp of magic again, and Anders sighed over the sound of sloshing water. There was a beat of silence and then he murmured, “And with you back, I was just… irrelevant.” 

It didn’t make any sense that Caralyn kept letting these idiot men into her heart and her bed who just tossed her away, out of self-sacrifice, or some attempt to save her, and wasn’t he damned to count himself among them? “And what she wanted didn’t matter?” 

That hung there in the air, Anders still and silent again, Alistair’s heart aching and angry that between the two of them they had managed such an unmitigated disaster. 

The sudden bang on the door was not the light knock of Norah delivering food, and it was not her voice that called angrily from the hallway, “Isabela! Fuck you for coming back to town and hiding from me like a fucking barnacle licking coward.” 

Alistair bolted to his feet and strode to the door, ignoring the huge splash from Anders’ bath as the other man startled. There was impossible and then there was _impossible_ and that Caralyn had shown up at the door of the room he and Anders were in, busily dancing around the topic of how to apologize to her for betraying and abandoning her with all of the very best intentions? That wasn’t just impossible, it was _absurd_

He opened the door and there she was, absolutely sodden, a dark cloak plastered down her back, kohl running down her cheeks, her hair falling and matted, practically choking herself as she shoved back her hood. Her hands froze as she looked up at him. 

“Oh.” 

The saying was wrong, it turned out, or maybe an empty head didn’t always mean a smart mouth, because Alistair could find nothing to either think or say as she stood there staring and shivering, dripping all over the threshold. 

“Cara?” They both turned to look at Anders, just as dripping, a towel wrapped around his hips as he tripped over his own boots trying to get round the screen. 

“Oh.” Her lips stayed parted as she breathed that same single word out again. She raised her hands, pushed Alistair hard in the chest, shoving him back into the room and he let her because she was stepping forward, following, and slamming the door shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little of an abrupt break, but I want to do the direct continuation from Caralyn's point of view. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, kudos and support. :)


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke accepts some comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, these idiots. Finally in the same place! And finally some comfort to go with all that emotional hurt/angst.

The trip to the Hanged Man was dark and wet and confusing. Hawke got turned around three times because the buildings were in different places, pits and piles of rubble where she expected certain landmarks, and the rain was coming down in blinding sheets. The only good thing to say for that was it meant there weren’t any cutthroats looking to die lurking in the shadows. Or if there were they couldn’t see her any better than she could see them. 

She missed the sign and the main entrance to the tavern. She should have been able to find it by the fucking smell, but instead she found herself in an alley that looked familiar and a door that should probably have been locked, but wasn’t. 

The three steps up out of the stinking alley and into the inn’s back hallway were a struggle. Her cloak and dress seemed about twice as heavy as her whole body, saturated with rain as they were. Her stomach was all bile and brandy and her head was swimming. She couldn’t stop trembling, but she thought if the cold water wasn’t trickling down her back and slipping through her hair to drip down her nose she might collapse under how fucking hot it was. 

She leaned against the wall, blinking into the rushlights, trying not to breathe too deeply because it was still the Hanged Man, and as much as the smell of stale sweat and stale beer and stale piss might be _home_ and _family_ (and not just because of Gamlen), it was still disgusting. She just needed to catch her breath and order her slippery, twisty thoughts, and remember what the fuck she was doing here. 

Bravado? Alistair and Anders. But… maybe first Varric? She shook her head and had to take a deep breath as her stomach lurched.

She stared at a fixed spot on the floor, ignoring the shift and sway of the world around her. Had she really drank that much brandy? Enough, apparently, to make everything spin. She squinted her eyes as she turned her head, gaze trailing down the hall to Isabela’s room. 

There was light under the door to Isabela’s room. 

Why was there a light on in Isabela’s room? 

Everyone had told her the pirate hadn’t been seen in weeks. Varric assured her that she’d show back up eventually, with new stories, new scars, and some kind of frightening new booze that could blind a cirrhotic dwarf. 

The tears welling in Hawke’s eyes, if she wasn’t sure already, were plenty clue that she was well and truly drunk. Fucking gone and maudlin over Isabela, when it wasn’t the first time she’d fucked off without a word, wasn’t the longest time she’d been gone. It was mostly just… Hawke could have used a little terrible advice tonight. The worse the better. 

And then there was the Tome of Koslun and all that nugshit. Her scalp should have been steaming how furious she suddenly felt. Hawke had dueled the cocking _Arishok_ for Isabela, and she had just run the fuck away. 

She wasn’t even aware she was stumbling down the hallway toward the door until she felt the rattle of the punch she threw at the wood well into her shoulder. “Isabela! Fuck you for coming back to town and hiding from me like a fucking barnacle licking coward.” Did Varric know she was back? Did Aveline? Maker’s bleeding nipples, Aveline was going to kill the pirate. If Hawke left any bits of her alive for Aveline to finish off. 

Of course the shouting was going to have a hard time getting past the tears that kept threatening to choke her. Was she going to strangle Isabela? Cry into her cleavage? Ask her for some advice about what to do about Anders and Alistair before she’s was too sober to be embarrassed about the fact the answers were going to be extensive and involve _diagrams_? 

Or… the door could open and Alistair could be standing there, hair longer than she remembered, beard fuller, staring at her with wide eyes that didn’t entirely seem to believe what he was seeing. 

“Oh.” 

Her vision swam. She blinked, fierce and rapid, trying to clear it as she glanced past him, trying to find something to anchor this on. No, that was definitely Isabela’s room, she hadn’t got that part wrong, with the silk hangings and the gold-tasseled pillows in vermillion and magenta and cerulean and a bunch of other colors that went from ridiculous to lewd piled against each other. 

She swallowed, a hard gulp of her own sour spit, because this was truly bad and if she vomited on his boots it would be fucking irredeemable. Scrape together even two fistfuls of pride. Dignity. She might have shown up drunk, soaking wet, shaking with fear or fever, she wasn’t sure, hunched over with pain in a scar that shouldn’t hurt, choking on tears, covered in hickies and lovebites from an Ostwick noble twat, but if she didn’t vomit she could salvage this. 

“Cara?” Her eyes flicked up to the screen that partitioned the room into something like a suite, and of course, _of fucking course_ Anders was stumbling around it, mostly naked, wet and thin, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Oh.” 

She left off trying to shove her hood back she couldn’t feel her hands. The cloak was choking her, hanging against her throat, but she could still breathe because the air, warm and spiced and humid with steam, felt like fire in her chest, and she was just so fucking furious all of a sudden. Alistair’s warm hazel eyes, glinting gold and green, hungry on her face, and what fucking right did he have to look at her like that when he was in _Isabela’s_ room with _Anders_ naked right fucking there? 

She hit him in the chest with her palms in a damp smack, her elbows extended into a shove that she lurched into. He stepped back as if it were the obvious thing, to let her move him when she never could have if he didn’t let her, and that stuck her tongue right to the roof of her mouth. He wasn’t flinching away from her, or even retreating, exactly. He was just letting her into the room.

The kick she slammed the door with tangled in her skirts and because she was half-drowned by her own clothes and the other half drowned by egregiously expensive brandy, she started to fall.

Alistair caught her. Of course he caught her, hands grasping her elbows through the clinging clammy brocade of the cloak. Her own hands knotted into fists in the front of his shirt. She was shuddering. Too warm, his chest almost painfully hot under her fingers, if she wasn’t already soaked to the bone she would be sweating, and under his achingly open gaze she was in danger of burning. 

How could he look worried and warm at the same time? And why did he? Where the fuck had he been? 

That prickled along her spine, and she jerked her arms back, standing straighter, though between the spinning in her head and the shivering the rest of her was doing it was hard. His hands stayed out, hovering, and she watched his throat bob as he swallowed. Why? Fucking why this? She turned her face away only to find Anders looking at her like a half-drowned kitten, naked except for a fucking towel. 

She clawed at the clasp of her cloak, feeling like it was strangling her, but she was also talking. When had she started talking? 

“Maker fuck you both. Her? _Her_? Why fucking her?” She couldn’t find the toggle to release the garment, realized a beat later that she was wearing the thing inside-out and that was why… void. She clawed it open on the underside, her shoulders shaking with bitter, silent laughter as well as the general shivering she was doing, and she shook her head sharply when Alistair and Anders glanced at each other, worried, wary, maybe confused? “No. Just, no. Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Cara, are you hurt?” Anders took a step closer, wetting his lips, hand raising and she could feel his magic rising even though he looked like he’d just fucking fall down if he cast even one spell. There was a part of her that wanted to feel the comfort of his healing slip over her skin, ease inside and just soothe it all away. But she could see he had fuck all to spare and it would be wasted on her, on scars and drunken stupidity, and besides where had he been? Why should she accept his pity, the wobbly dog dick? 

“Don’t, no… don’t.” The cloak peeled off of her shoulders and slumped down her back and she watched both their eyes flick over her ruined dress and hair. 

Anders rubbed the hand he’d extended toward her against his hip, over the flannel towel he was still holding closed at his waist with the other as he looked at her neck, lips thinning and twitching down at the corners. He looked tired, and sad, and damn worried. She ducked her head and started digging in the coils of her hair for the pins and combs that were still holding it up despite all the rain. 

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter and I don’t fucking care.” She couldn’t say at that moment what she meant. The fact that both the idiots she had decided she was doing a shit poor job of living without were fucking each other or Isabela or some combination? The way that their eyes lingered on the marks little lord Benedict had left like they weren’t sure if they were wounds? The fact the world was swimming and she might pitch forward onto her face with her hands so hopelessly tangled in her hair that she was going to get a busted nose unless Alistair caught her again? 

Her breath hitched in her chest, no longer laughter, but not quite a sob. She didn’t care. Because it didn’t matter where they were putting their cocks, just like it didn’t matter if Benedict Trevelyan had been half up her skirt, and it certainly didn’t fucking matter if she fell down because she was willing to bet every coin she had that Alistair would catch her, and if for some unfathomable reason he couldn’t, then Anders would be there to heal her broken nose. 

The sound of her hair pins hitting the walls, the mirror by the painted screen, the door, sharp metallic sounds reminded her she was throwing them. Her voice was hoarse as she said, louder, surer this time, “I don’t care.“

“You don’t care if you’re hurt? Or that, er, other thing?” Alistair’s cheeks flushed under the beard he’d grown and for a moment she couldn’t think of anything she’d ever hated more than the hair that was hiding all the nuance of his expression. Shame or embarrassment? She couldn’t tell. 

She unwound one of the plaits that was wrapped into the teeth of the large silver comb that held the majority of her loose hair up and tugged it free, hissing as a few hairs were pulled loose with it. Alistair caught it when it hit him in the chest, slapping a hand over it and holding it against his sternum. He blinked at her, one eyebrow lifting, a bemused twitch of his lips visible underneath all that stupid fucking face hair. 

All of Orana’s careful work came down like a tangle of seaweed, lying over her collar bones in stringy clumps. At least it would hide the bite mark, even if it made her look like wildling witch. More like a wildling witch than the scowling, tear-stained ruin of her face already did. 

“Neither. It doesn’t matter. I don’t _care_ if you fuck me, or fuck each other, or fuck the fucking pirate, okay?” She was having a hard time pushing the words up her throat the way her chest was constricted by the corset. It had to go too. She started fumbling at the catches of the bodice so she could get at the laces of the stays beneath. 

“We are not sleeping with Isabela!” Anders sounded indignant. “She isn’t even in Kirkwall!” 

“Or each other. Not, that… well--” 

“Fucking shut up!” The tiny hooks tore as she yanked at it, trying to find a way out of this prison of a dress. “I just said I don’t fucking care!” Tears were stinging her eyes now, but she didn’t feel like she was crying. Drowning maybe? The relief she felt at Anders’ denial was laced with shame, because she had just said she didn’t care. She was starting to feel cold, the trembling making her lips quiver and gooseflesh rise on her arms. 

A hand closed over her wrist and she could feel the fitful warmth rolling off Anders’ bare chest as he stepped closer to her. “Cara, slow down.” 

She hunched a little, staring down at Alistair’s feet. It seemed important that he was wearing boots, but she couldn’t figure out why. She shook her head and drew a breath, trying to steady herself. She needed to make sense, just a little, just enough that they would understand what she was doing here. 

What was she doing here? Her whole left side felt like it was turned toward a fire where Anders was standing. Alistair watched them with focused attention, his hands still half-raised like he hadn’t given up on the idea of reaching for her, and Maker did she want that. She wanted to be able to feel his hands on her skin alongside Anders’ and what if they laughed at her? 

Any commitment to that bravado she’d left the Viscount’s Keep with was bleeding away. Plainly there was something between them, and their absence over the weeks was pointed and clear, except… Except the way Anders gripped her like he was reminding himself she was real, and Alistair was just staring like he couldn’t even bear to blink. She used her free hand to rub her eyes. 

She was way too fucking drunk to make sense. So of course, she kept right on talking.

“I don’t want to be alone. I need… I just need both of you idiot fuckstains and I can’t… I don’t care if that makes me stupid or weak.” She turned her head, looking at where Anders’ fingers were closed around her wrist, then up to his face where his eyes were so wide and full of pain that she felt her stomach lurch. “So can you just pretend for tonight? I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to… I just…” She just didn’t want to be cold or alone or… She tried to pull away, and found herself looking up at Alistair, one of his broad hands reaching to cup her cheek. Instead of shaking it off, or biting him, or any of the other things she wanted to do, everything in her screaming _run_ because she had shown how damaged she was… instead of that she whispered, “Please.” 

“Maker, Caralyn.” The words left him in a rush, like she’d hit him in the stomach, unwarned, unguarded. His arms pulled her close, or he stepped into her, she wasn’t sure because her face was buried in the warmth of his chest, his shirt a little rough under her cheek, smelling of ale and woodsmoke and leather. One of his hands cupped the back of her head and the other steadied her when she swayed. The room was spinning again. Anders’ hand trailed off her wrist and she startled at Alistair’s sudden movement, one of his hands springing out past her. “No. No, you disappearing is a bad plan, a terrible plan.”

Anders let out an annoyed exhale that transformed into a tired sigh. “Do you think that Isabela left behind anything she can wear to bed?” 

The arm around her relaxed enough that Alistair’s hands could move to the hooks she’d struggled with, undoing them carefully. She kept her face buried in his chest, her own hands gripping the sides of his shirt now at his waist. She shivered as the calloused pads of his fingers scraped over the bare skin on her back to gather up her hair and pull it aside. “The chest there has mine-- no to the left. The one without any dirty carvings. Yes. That should have something for you. Isabela’s is in the chest of drawers, but Maker knows what all you’ll find in there.”

The sound of a drawer being opened was followed by a sharp bark of laughter from Anders. “I think that if the Maker knew what was in this drawer Isabela would have been struck by lightning by now.” There was more scraping drawers and rustling. “Ah. Here.” 

Alistair had loosened the bodice enough that the whole dress was falling down her hips, leaving her in the stays and smallclothes beneath, but she didn’t care. She could just hold onto him, fists tightening when she thought her knees would buckle because he leaned down enough to rest his cheek on the top of her head for a moment. “Caralyn? We’ve got you something dry to change into.” His voice ghosted in her hair, rumbled under her cheek in his chest. 

She didn’t want to let go. She shook her head just a touch, gripping him tighter, one arm circling his waist to grip the shirt in the back. 

“Come on, love.” Anders hand rubbed over her shoulder and she thought her heart stopped, between the endearment and the tender, coaxing touch. “Quicker you change, the quicker you can fall into bed.”

Hawke kept her eyes clenched shut, breathing through the waves of nausea that echoed the spinning the room was still doing. She loosened her grip on Alistair, let him step away. She peeled one eye open so that she could focus on the long smear of blue linen she was being handed. She gripped it while Anders’ clever fingers pulled at the laces of her stays in the back, and after a moment Alistair was standing to her side, wringing the rain from her hair into a towel. 

The corset loosened and nearly dropped, but Anders caught it and guided her arms to the front to hold it up. “Almost there, Cara.” He began shaking out the shirt, gathering it up so he could slip it over her head, eyes focused on her face. 

She let him bend her arms one at a time through the sleeves of the shirt and then peeled the corset away from her middle as the hem dropped nearly to her knees. She managed to loosen the drawstring of her knickers and push them off over her hips, feeling relief at the clinging wet silk leaving her skin. She was shaking again. They’d dressed her like they’d never seen her tits before, like she had modesty left to preserve. The sleeves of the shirt were too long and she bunched the cuffs in her fists before pressing them against her eyes. 

“Shh, it’s fine.” Alistair arranged her hair, which was still just a tangle of drowned snakes, with absurd care down her back. And then he scooped her up out of the tangle of skirts and stays and cloak, just plucked her up from the middle of it. She could feel the bunch of the thick muscles in his arms and the way his throat bobbed when she pressed her face against his neck. “We’ve got you, Caralyn.” She nodded at that, and she could feel his pulse racing under her cheek. 

He could have set her down on the bed or a chair before Anders pulled off her ruined slippers but he didn’t, holding her with one arm behind her knees, the other supporting her back. The prickle of his beard caught at her hairline, her forehead. “The beard fucking itches.” 

Anders snorted as a warm, wet cloth enveloped her right foot. “I like it.” He washed from her ankle down, careful around the arch where she was ticklish, a bit brusque as he wiped between her toes. 

Hawke raised her head to look at Alistair, worried by the way his heart was pounding, his arms painfully tight around her. He was smiling, just a little, a tiny quirk of his mouth that was almost lost in that beard. She could only focus on him enough to see it by squinting out of one eye, though, so maybe she was wrong and he was frowning. Fuck, she’d missed him. 

When the warm towel closed over her left foot she peered over at Anders but he was too far away and the room was swimming too alarmingly to see anything past the hair that was falling and hiding his face. She lay her head back down and let her eyes fall closed as the room spun, or was that her? Yes, it was, because she was being settled onto the bed and she curled into a tight, shivering ball as Alistair’s arms slid away. 

The bed was soft and big and enveloping and it smelled faintly of spice and sandalwood, but more of Alistair. She burrowed further into the pillow, gripping a handful of sheet to anchor her against the rise and fall of her brandy-addled brain. He and Anders were whispering to each other in voices she couldn’t tease apart behind her until they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Alistair opened it, thanked whoever it was, and the door closed. 

The smell of the Hanged Man’s terrible slop turned Hawke stomach, but she listened silently to Alistair press food onto Anders, thankful that someone was doing it when the idiot didn’t seem to be paying attention to his own needs. She might have dozed while they ate because she startled when the mattress shifted under the weight of one of them. 

She groaned against the rising bile in her stomach, tightening into a smaller ball, too cold and sweating at the same time. 

Anders slid in behind her, one too-thin arm slipping over her side, until his warm chest was pressed against her back. His fingers trailed down her arm, settling around her hand that was fisted into the sheet. The faintest wisp of a healing spell eased her nausea. “It’s okay, Cara, you’re here.” His whisper tickled just behind her ear and she loosened her fingers enough to lace them through his. She curled tighter, pulling him around her. “You’re here, and he’s here, and I’m here, okay?” 

She grunted softly and managed to nod into the pillow, listening to the sounds Alistair made as he moved around the room, the rustling and rattling as he gathered up her castoff clothes, his soft footfalls after his boots dropped to the floor in a set of thumps. He doused a few of the lamps and candles, but when her eyes fluttered open there was still a dim light by which to see. Did he know she was like a child, afraid of the dark? How? Her chest hurt. If he’d doused them all, left them in the heavy, spiced darkness of Isabela’s bordello of a room she might have been able to bear it tonight. 

The side of the bed she faced dipped and she reached out, her knuckles still laced with Anders until they brushed against Alistair’s arm. She closed her fingers over his wrist, pressing them against his racing pulse, and she wanted to say something to make it clearer, but it was too large and too much and her tongue was still stupid with brandy, so instead she squeezed until he shifted closer to her. His free hand came up and a finger brushed over her cheek, down to her chin. He lifted her face just far enough kiss her brow. “Sleep well, Caralyn.” His hand retreated and she settled back, forehead pressed against the outer curve of his bare shoulder when she finally slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally the first segment of a three-part chapter, but I decided to expand it so I could do a segment from each of their POVs. Next up: Alistair. 
> 
> Thank you, as always for reading, commenting, and giving a crap about my asshole Hawke and her disastrous love-life.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which their rest is interrupted, but there follows surprisingly little cursing. Also: hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but I really needed to get something posted before I lost the thread entirely again.

Alistair had been having the most wonderful dream. He thought. It might have been a bit melancholy, honestly. There was a sting in his eyes that reminded him of the syrupy Fade construct of his sister, Goldanna, the image of her he’d had long before he’d ever met the actual harpy of a woman. 

But this dream, lost in a fog of sudden waking, hadn’t been about her, certainly not. Why was he suddenly left with the question _could wholeness hurt?_ He was trying to jog his memory, figure out why he felt almost like weeping with loss when the banging on the door that woke him came again, and his eyes sprang open, and the remnants were gone. 

Three more frame-rattling knocks, the distinct sound of a leather glove on the wooden planks, followed by a stern, “Come on, New Guy, open up.” Varric was the one knocking while the light was barely grey outside, then. 

Alistair was startled anew by the sudden surge of the warm, heavy weight curled against his side that he somehow failed to notice. Caralyn… Caralyn was in his bed. So the dream… it wasn’t a dream exactly, and it wasn’t all false. His horrible, yearning brain hadn’t been lying to him. At least, not about that. 

She sat up, clutching her head, moaning softly and on the other side of her Alistair could see a tuft of blond hair sticking out from underneath a pillow that was pinned down with a bony arm. 

“Maker’s breath.” Maybe it hadn’t been a dream, but was instead a memory, and here it was all true and safe and within arm’s reach. Alistair let out a shaky, unvoiced laugh. Terrifying. 

Varric’s knocking sounded again and Caralyn flinched, curling forward. He reached up and pressed a hand to the small of her back, the gesture positively restrained given the sudden urge he had to pull her into his arms, roll her under him, and never move again. 

Instead he just pressed his hand there as she froze, rigid under his fingers. Well, someone else had forgotten she was in his bed it seemed. He moved his hand in a slow stroke up to her shoulder blades and back as he swung his legs down and let his feet find the floor. Yes, this was definitely real. The thin weave of the shirt she wore contrasted starkly against the plush pile of the rug under his feet. He heaved himself up off the bed, letting his fingers trail off her back as the dwarf’s fist knocked yet again. 

He cast a brief glance at Caralyn’s face, all twisted up in a tight scowl, eyes clenched shut, one hand on her temple, and the other pressed against her stomach. He winced. Given her state the night before, he did not envy the headache she must have. He scratched at his bare chest, ignoring the nervous swirl of his own stomach and tugged the door open. 

“Maker’s breath, stop pounding.” He’d caught the dwarf with his gloved fist raised to knock again. He grimaced through a yawn. “Good morning, Varric.”

For once Varric’s face didn’t hold a trace of his jovial smirk. Businesslike, a bit grim. “Come on, New Guy. Put your gear on. Your girlfriend disappeared on us again last night. Never made it home from the fancy Champion party she went to.” Varric was dressed in his duster, all his sundry roguey things clipped to belts and poking out of pockets, Bianca on his back. He was doing his best at a flippant drawl, but it was a poor mask for his worry. 

Girlfriend. That seemed somehow insufficient and oddly premature. Alistair felt his ears heating at the sound of a tiny whimper from Caralyn behind him. 

“Blondie’s also missing from his clinic, but I saw him with you, so I figured you’d at least know when he wandered back down into his sewer. If he wandered back down.” Varric’s mouth twitched at the corner, a little frown between his eyebrows as he looked up at Alistair. “You need to keep better track of your--”

Well, that sentence needed to just stop before it got all the way out. Alistair swung the door open and stepped aside, one arm sweeping toward the bed, letting his head fall forward so that the hair he kept meaning to cut flopped, all cowlicky and piecey into his eyes. He glanced to the side to where Caralyn was glaring at him. Or the door. Or Varric. It was a general, diffuse sort of glare. 

“Well shit.” Varric’s eyebrows were raised, the corners of his mouth widening into a grin as he lifted his hand to rub his chin. “Hawke.” 

“Dwarf.” Caralyn’s throat sounded like it was full of riverbed gravel. She rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes, the too-long sleeves of Isabela’s shirt falling down to her elbows. 

The blankets rustled as Anders pulled them further up over his head, leaving his narrow feet bare and hanging off the end of the bed, toes pointed toward the floor. Alistair’s hand returned to his chest, instead of scratching, just letting it rest over the strange, full ache behind his breastbone. 

“Well, it looks like Aveline can call off the search party.” Varric sounded like he was trying to hold back a full blown guffaw when he chuckled. Alistair managed to stop staring at the bed full of befuddled mage to catch the glint in his eyes. Maker, he was probably memorizing details, inventing things that hadn’t even happened. 

“Go away, Varric.” Caralyn dropped her hands after her mumbled order, returning to glaring, this time much more specifically at her friend. And blushing. Glaring and blushing. 

“And in Rivaini’s bed too!” This time Varric practically crowed. “Well done, you three.” 

“I said, fuck off, dwarf!” The bark in her voice was undermined by a ragged snore from the pile of blankets that hid Anders, and Varric snorted with laughter as he waved a dismissive hand at her.

He looked up at Alistair, gaze sharpening, measuring, and then shook his head once more, still trying to still the laughter that was pulling at his mouth. “Have a good rest of your morning, New Guy.” He turned and wandered down the hall. 

Alistair shut the door and rested his forehead against it, trying to control the stinging blush that was creeping up his cheeks. Sweet Maker, he supposed he should be a whole new manner of grateful that Isabela was absent from Kirkwall. If she were running the rumor mill it would just be… lewd. And baselessly so, unfortunately. 

That caused the flush to wing higher, and he shook his head, trying not to think about all the lewd things he had done with Caralyn, and all the lewd things he’d finally admitted to himself he’d thought of doing with Anders, and all the lewd things he’d definitely imagined them doing together. 

What in the void was wrong with him? It was not at all the time and when did his skin get so damnably tight? 

The silence behind him made the skin between his shoulderblades itch, and finally Alistair turned to see Caralyn look away instead of meeting his eyes. Both her hands were buried in her hair, palms pressed above her temples. She still had remnants of ruined cosmetics around her eyes, and the lovebites that had been small red marks on her smooth throat had bloomed to a dark berry color. He watched her face tilt so she could watch him from the corner of her eye, brows drawing down further, shoulders hunching in like she was bracing for a lecture. Alistair fought the bitter laugh that bubbled in his throat. Like he had any right to lecture her. What would he even lecture her about? Fancying two of the stupidest men in Kirkwall? 

He rubbed a hand over his face and wandered over to the sideboard. Maker, please let her still fancy him. Them? He didn’t even know. It was too early for any of these thoughts. Far too early. 

There was water, small beer, and tea left from the tray last night that had gone cold and bitter. Well if it already tasted terrible, adding a little elfroot to it wouldn’t hurt. He rummaged for a small bottle among the poultices and salves that he kept for treating all the minor injuries that came with getting pummeled and bludgeoned and stabbed for a living. He tipped a little of the potion into a cup and topped it up with tea, then filled a second mug with water and took it back toward the bed. 

This time he caught Caralyn staring at him, and he tried to smile as he held out the tea. “This might help with your head.” Her eyes, ringed by smeared kohl and dark circles were hard to read, but it wasn’t the first time he’d seen that wary, narrow pinch to her features. He wished he’d given her better reason to trust him, that she didn’t feel the need to coil in, because she was ready -- ready to push back, to push away. 

Her fingers brushed his as she took the cup and the tingle had to be more than imagined as it sang up his wrist. He blew out a soft breath as she gulped the bitter brew down without saying anything, her face screwed up, and then pawed for the water with her eyes still closed. He pressed it into her palm, steadying it with both hands before taking back the empty tea cup. 

“Fucking foul.” She cracked an eye to frown at him. 

“Personally, I think the tea here is worse when it’s fresh, but what do I know?” He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking as she wrinkled her nose at him. “And I know elfroot is a poor substitute for the fancier potions you mages brew, but it’s something. You could probably make Anders heal it, if you can wake him from his hundred-years-slumber.” He cocked his head and took the second empty cup as she snorted. He caught the look she shot at the sleeping mage before he turned away, and the way her full lip quivered for just a moment before her teeth seized it.

He turned back with his own cup of terrible, bitter, cold tea to watch as she reached slowly to brush her fingers along the back of Anders’ exposed arm. It was the only part of his skin she could reach, from the crooked knuckles of his fingers down over the knob of his wrist to the darker dusting of hair on his forearm. She let her hand linger there a moment until the snoring softened and faded underneath that pillow and she jerked her hand back. 

Alistair poured his own cup of water, drank it to clear the thickness of his tongue. Once he’d set the cups aside he cleared his throat. “Do you need anything else?” He turned back to find her fists knotted in the blankets, staring down at them with tears on her lashes. 

The slight shake of her head scattered her tangled hair into her eyes and his hands shook with the want to brush it out of her face. He stepped back closer to the bed and she sighed heavily before starting to pull the blankets back, as if she were going to get up, as if she were going to leave. 

Alistair wasn’t going to let that happen, not until they’d talked, and right now there was no way they were yet in a state to say anything useful. Head still muddy with sleep, Anders snoring away, and Caralyn at best in pain from a hangover, and possibly still a little drunk. So when the section of bed he’d been occupying was exposed he sat down, trapping her before she could move toward the edge. 

“Budge up.” He shifted to lean back against the pillows, watching her frown and glance toward Anders who had her pinned on the other side, completely unable to scoot anywhere if she didn’t want to sit on top of him. Alistair reached to pull the blanket toward him, swallowing past the knot in his throat. “No, you ridiculous thing, come _here_.” He reached for her hand, lifted it gently and tugged her toward him. 

Her face went blank and pale for a moment, and then her brows drew together in a frown that was so hastily pasted over the sudden hopeful quirk of her mouth that he had to force his own smile. Her armor was so fierce and thick and he’d managed to worry under it once, but would she let him a second time? He had been a coward who probably didn’t deserve it, but she certainly didn’t deserve the loneliness she’d for once last night decided to no longer hide. 

He kept tugging until she was draped against his side, a hand over his heart, face resting on his shoulder. His arm circled her shoulders tightly, hand lost in the tangle of her hair, fingers brushing it gently behind the shell of her ear. 

“Alistair, what are we--” He could feel the soft brush of her lips against his skin as she spoke and the way she was stiffening with the question.

“Shush.” He squeezed her a little tighter.

“Don’t fucking shush--” 

Maybe a dangerous move, but he interrupted her again. “Ah-ah. Your rules. You said you didn’t want to talk about it last night and it isn’t quite tomorrow yet, so shush. Go back to sleep. If there’s going to be stabbing, or shouting, or threats of grave magical retribution, let me have this first, just a few more hours.” He expected her to push away but if anything she pressed closer, her fingers curling into the ginger hair on his chest until it pulled, smarting slightly. 

She was trembling and he leaned his head toward her, brushing his lips against her forehead, arm tightening, but not half so hard as he wanted, because he didn’t want to hurt her. The sudden tip of her head surprised him and the press of her lips against his, hard enough to sting against his teeth stole his breath. He parted his lips to kiss her back, caught her full mouth, pulling her half off the mattress as he dragged her closer, neverminding the bitter taste of tea and elfroot, over the sour flavor of last night’s brandy. 

It took him a moment to remember himself, that Anders was prone in the bed an arms-length away, that they still hadn’t _talked_ about… anything ever really. He pulled away to look at her, to try to read intention in her eyes, but they were shut as she burrowed into his side again, hiding her face against his shoulder. 

His heart was racing, the hair on his arms standing up, the muscles in his abdomen twitching, as he tried to still all the other parts of him that had caught a sudden interest in the kiss. The stirring of desire fled just as quickly when he realized she was crying. His arms circled her again, his free hand coming to smooth her hair, letting her shiver and snuffle against his skin. 

If he were a better man he would know what to say to soothe her. He shifted, angling toward her, gathering her closer to his chest. He pressed his face into her hair, mouth whispering nonsense endearments that his brain couldn’t possibly have had any hand in choosing, because it was still busy panicking that he had hurt her further by pulling away from a kiss that meant… what? Everything? Possibly everything. 

There was rustling and grumbling and Anders blinked over her shoulder at Alistair as he slid closer, one of his arms falling over her side to rest between her stomach and Alistair’s.

Anders’ knuckles brushed against the skin just below his ribs in what had to be an intentional, tender stroke, causing his ears to heat. He still wasn’t sure what was going to happen between the three of them, but the press of a gentle kiss to the back of his wrist followed by a second one to Caralyn’s temple made Alistair’s skin prickle with warmth. 

“Shh, love, shh. It’s all right. See? We are all of us all right.” Anders’ words seemed to help some, her tears slowing and finally subsiding, She softened in Alistair’s arms, going heavy and loose, her breath turning deep and even. 

Alistair found himself staring at Anders as the other man dropped back off to sleep curled against Caralyn’s back. Alistair brushed hair back from Anders’ cheek behind his ear, felt the scrape of his stubble as he trailed his knuckles down his jaw. 

He blinked slowly, smiling like a fool, eyes heavy, drifting back towards sleep himself, arm gone before him and promising the pain of pins and needles later. Maybe they weren’t settled, maybe they weren’t all right, but for the first time in a long time, too warm in this ridiculous bed in this absurd room… well. 

A man could dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I'm so sorry for having left this to languish for so many weeks just when we'd got the principles in position. I had a few nightmare weeks at work, a summer cold/flu, and a bit of a trough in my belief in my ability to make words do word things. So, even though this isn't my favorite chapter, it was important to get something up while I had a moment and was even remotely feeling it. Thanks for being patient and sticking with me. 
> 
> As always, <3 to all my readers.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders doesn't run away for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a long time coming and is also just long. I sure hope it works. Anders POV!

Maker this was awkward. Would be awkward? He certainly felt awkward, even though it had been nothing but soft nuzzling and a tangled pile of arms and legs and a warm cocoon of contentment until he’d woke with his pulse racing and the realization soon they were going to have to talk and now he was standing in the middle Alistair’s borrowed room fretting. . 

Anders could go from salivating with gratitude to ruining everything terrifyingly fast, and in this case, he had rather a lot to lose. He crouched, ignoring the creak in his knees, to peek under the bed. 

The talk would be awkward. Awkward edging toward fatally humiliating. Anders had his chance with Hawke and had bollocksed it beyond up. He’d seduced Alistair in a fit of despair. He’d abandoned her while she was convalescing. He wasn’t even sure he could explain why he’d gone or where he’d been for all those weeks, except the clinic. The mages. Had he even been in contact with the underground? He wasn’t sure of anything except that right here, now, finally felt real. 

He straightened, frowned, turning in a slow circle with his hands on his hips. He could tell it was real because he was apparently being denied the dignity of trousers while his whole world was falling apart. 

He ran his hands into his hair, grabbing it in double fistfulls so he could ignore the trembling, the skirling, twisting certainty that for all that Hawke and Alistair seemed to want him here that he was going to change their minds. She, especially, had no reason to… He shook his head sharply, trying to chase that thought away, loosen the strangling thickness in his throat. 

“I want this. I want this and why, why for once can’t I just… stop. Maker’s balls. Stop. Stop, stop.” He pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle the whispers. Where were his bloody clothes?

Usually when things were _socially_ uncomfortable for Anders, his first instinct was to be a flippant ass. Luckily no one was awake to hear his muttered sniping. The second instinct was to run. He might already be halfway to Darktown, but he couldn’t find his pants. Or his shirt. Or his bloody coat. It was all just… gone. 

He glanced with narrowed eyes at the sleeping bulk of Alistair, curled around Caralyn, her smaller shape nestled into his chest. The warm knot in his own chest was almost enough to overpower the prickling anxiety that once they were awake something horrible and flip and shallow and _mean_ was going to come out of his mouth and drive them both away or apart, and he needed time. 

Time to think of what he wanted to say to her, about him, and none of it should feel like a matter of life and death, he knew life and death, held it in his hands daily, and didn’t he need to get back to the clinic because there could have been another tenement collapse in the night or a fire in one of the dockside brothels or an outbreak of chokedamp that he couldn’t cure but he could ease, he could ease the suffering and ignore his own hammering, ravenous heart. 

“Well the face you’re making isn’t at all disconcerting.” 

Anders jerked his eyes from the floor, where he’d been staring aimlessly, unfocused, and frowned at Alistair. He was shifting in the bed, carefully disentangling himself from Cara, a broad hand gently cupping her head as he slid an arm out from under her neck. His face all soft and open. Like he could afford to just look at her like he loved her. And of course he could because he did. Anders heard the click in his own throat as he swallowed. 

“Honestly, that face isn’t any better.” 

“I’m so sorry you’re offended by my face.” He pulled his hands from his head, wincing as his knuckles snagged at the strands that had dried unbrushed after his interrupted bath. 

“I didn’t-- offended is such a strong word. Worried. Perturbed. Concerned?” Alistair shifted off the edge of the bed, settling the waist of his loose pants and Anders had to jerk his eyes up from the trail of hair under his navel, the hard flat of his abdomen to his face. Maker’s breath, now he was smirking. “That’s better. Now instead of panicking you just seem, oh I don’t know, intrigued?” 

“You can’t be intrigued by something you already know all about.” He nearly bit his tongue in his haste to be waspish. 

The quirk of Alistair’s mouth faded and he shrugged his broad, bare shoulders, a flush coloring his cheeks above his beard. He dropped his eyes and moved to the chest he kept his clothes in. He pulled out a shirt and shuffled it over his head. Anders watched him catch up his boots and take them to the end of the bed where he sat to tug them on. 

Anders felt the sting of his own flush in his cheeks, the twist in his gut. That was exactly the kind of shallow cruelty he’d been trying to avoid. “Where exactly are you going?” 

Alistair froze with one boot on and looked up, past the fallen fringe of his overlong hair, one of his eyebrows lifting. He studied Anders with a wry twist on his lips before announcing with that maddening lilt he used, “You’re scared of her.” 

“I’m scared of her waking up with you gone and her burning the whole bloody tavern down, sure.” It wouldn’t come off as so snappish if he were wearing proper clothes, he was certain. 

“And you weren’t wandering around looking for your pants so that you could leave?” 

Anders shook his head, not really denying the statement, just trying to find a way to refuse to have this conversation. He dropped to sit on the end of the bed, several hand spans between him and Alistair. 

Hazel eyes watched him for a moment and when he seemed to decide Anders wasn’t going to answer he offered, “I’m going to find you both something to eat that isn’t made out of rat or cat or…” He waggled his hand vaguely toward the tray from the night before. 

It wasn’t the worst thing Anders had ever eaten, but more than one meal in a row from the Hanged Man wasn’t really… advisable. He pursed his lips. “Bat maybe?” 

The smile that Alistair cracked was too sweet by half, even hidden by his beard. “Prat.” 

Anders shifted, uncomfortable with the sudden rush of warmth, the tingling in his fingertips where he wanted to reach out, grip his beard and kiss his smart, smirky mouth. He was dizzy with sudden want, cascading over his earlier need to run. “Andraste’s knickers, you’re insufferable.” 

“Look, I already hugged her back to sleep this morning and had to look that damned dwarf in the eye while he _chortled_ about the three of us in the pirate’s bed. Did you know that chortling was an actual thing that people do?” Alistair reached over to brush a finger along the back of Anders’ hand, the touch so light it could have been an accident, if the ridiculous man hadn’t leaned so far over in order to do it. “She isn’t going to set anything on fire.” 

Anders tucked his chin, shaking his head. How was he supposed to look at her? The lie that he’d been doing the right thing, staying out of her way, out of Alistair’s way was wearing thin even in his ears, and he wasn’t sure if it was his lie or Justice’s at this point. She was the Champion of Kirkwall, and she deserved more than an abomination in her bed, certainly, but she also didn’t deserve to be abandoned. 

“Are you really sure of that? She can be extremely cranky in the morning-- completely unreasonable once she’s actually awake.” Maker, he just really didn’t want Alistair to leave them alone. He was sweet and handsome and likable. Anders was just… threadbare. “Remember how angry she was that day we first met when you went downstairs for breakfast without waking her? Do you want that to happen again?” 

“If you’re here she won’t be alone?” 

“For fuck’s sake if you’re going to keep talking then both of you get the fuck out.” The sound of Cara’s grumbling froze both of them. There wasn’t much venom there, and after a moment of awkward silence he turned to look at her. She was watching them with wide, wary eyes. Like she was expecting them to actually get out.

She sat up slowly, pushing the mad tangle of her hair out of her eyes and back off her forehead, gaze shifting between the two of them, flicking down to where their knees were nearly touching as they’d turned toward each other to look back at her. She shook her head slowly, and averted her gaze, looking past them toward the door like she wanted to be anywhere else. 

Anders cleared his throat. “I… let’s maybe get one of Varric’s runners to go to the estate for clothes for you.” He glanced down at the shirt that he was swimming in, borrowed from Alistair, and sighed. “Well, both of us really.” He trailed off. He just assumed that she hadn’t thrown his spare clothes into the fire in his absence. 

Alistair stood, nodding. “Yes! Good because I threw your old things out the window last night because of the smell..” His smile was the sunny sort of thing that must have gotten him out of all sorts of trouble when he was a small boy. “Well, yours smelled, Anders. Caralyn’s was just… big?” He finished with a little wince that eased when Cara snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“Good fucking riddance.” 

“I’ll just go. Do that. While you two er--” 

“A bath for Cara, some food, maybe heal that whiskey head of hers, and then see about getting her home.” 

“No.” She stared into her lap where her hands were balled into fists, knuckles white. 

Alistair glanced at him then looked back at her, frowning faintly. “No?” 

“No. Fuck. No! I don’t want to go _home_. Then I have to be _her_ and she’s a fucking nightmare. And you know what else? She’s fucking alone! So fuck her. Fuck that fucking stupid cunt of a Champion.” Her blue eyes made two quick jumps, from the door to Alistair where he stood staring at her, and then to Anders, holding his gaze. “I want to stay here. With you. _Both_ of you.” 

The fear that had coiled in Anders’ gut ever since he woke, spurring his sharp tongue and his runaway’s restless feet, seemed to loosen. His heart ached when she dropped her eyes after three breaths of silence. “The part about the bath sounds okay though.” She scrambled out of the bed, shoving blankets out of the way, flash of her bare legs hardly registering before she was behind Isabela’s lewd screen. 

Anders stared after her with his lips parted, trying to parse all the words she had said in order, tease out the important parts. Both of them, it had been there in the air around them since he’d bumbled into Alistair in the common room the night before, all through their conversation about Hawke, truncated by her actual arrival, and then made necessary by her distress… Three of them in a bed together, and… that was what she wanted. Enough that for all her prickling avoidance, all the bluster that she hid behind, she’d actually said it. Out loud. Where they could both hear it.

Would she feel the same way when they explained their indiscretion and absence? He swallowed and flicked his gaze to Alistair. He was staring with a bemused, lopsided smile, unfocused in the direction of the screen. He startled after a moment, seeming to realize what exactly he was staring at, a sudden violent blush making Anders worry he might faint for a moment. He cleared his throat and turned, avoiding meeting Anders eyes directly, maybe because Anders found himself grinning. When had he last done that? 

“Right. Right then, I’ll be back. Soon. Food, clothes, and then, um, yes.” Alistair scrubbed fingers through his hair and with another shake of his head stepped out into the hallway. He poked his head back in to point a finger at Anders. “Stop it.” 

Anders lifted an eyebrow, unwilling to even try to stop smiling. Smirking. Leering? He sighed as Alistair shut the door hard enough to rattle it. listening to the creak of the hand pump that filled Isabela’s ill-gotten bathtub. He wasn’t sure what would qualify as well-gotten, if it was Isabela’s though. The hair on his arms lifted as Hawke’s magic warmed the water and he tried not to think about her bare skin or the way her magic sparked on her body when she wasn’t careful. And she was never careful. He ran a hand over his face and swallowed, trying to decide how to explain to her his fears, his worries, his guilt. 

Justice snapped and sizzled in his belly, feeding the impulse to run back to the clinic and after… well there was no telling how long he spent trying to throttle that feeling back down, but Anders found himself hissing, “How is it just to abandon her?” Justice had no answer for that and Anders could hear her muttered curses and small, fitful splashes, so he pushed off the bed and moved toward the screen with slow steps. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?” 

The splashing and cursing quieted for a moment and when she answered she sounded a little breathless. “About another year of sleep. A spell to erase the memory of Cullen, Aveline, and Benedict Trevelyan. A fucking comb.”

He shook his head, moving to the vanity to see about the comb among the trinkets and cosmetics Isabela had left. She had several, and Anders picked the sturdy polished wooden one with the wide teeth as he muttered, “I’m strangely afraid to guess which of those notables put the lovebites on your neck.” He tapped the comb against his palm as he rounded the screen, biting his tongue at the tartness in his own voice. She was waiting, glaring up at him with huge, shadowed eyes, fingers hopelessly tangled in her hair. “I can help with the comb, though.” 

She turned her head, watching him from the corner of her eye, letting her arms splash down into the water that had gone milky with soap. “And if I said it was all fucking three of them? Big time orgy at the Champion’s reception. Fucked by a Knight-Captain, a Guard-Captain, and some Ostwick shithead?”

He exhaled through his nose. He was the shithead here. He felt old and tired and unpleasant for making her talk about it. “I can’t imagine either Aveline or Cullen doing anything that interesting.” He held the comb toward her. 

“You’re an asshole.” She snatched the comb from his hand and started trying to pick through the bottom of the front section, pulled forward over her eyes. There were still the vestiges of tiny plaits that had to be worked out patiently, and when had she ever had more than a pittance of that?

“I’m aware.” And he was. He shook his head, eyes unfocusing as prickles of insistence that his selfishness at wanting her, wanting to be near her, meant he didn’t deserve her. Greedy and callow, looking to hide in the soft rich world that Hawke had pulled around her, while their brethren suffered. Selfish enough to harbor covetous, aching feelings for Alistair, who was the hero, just look at him, and Hawke deserved whatever happiness he could give her. Selfish enough to think that going back to the clinic, leaving them to a life together, a life not embroiled in insurrection and rebellion, leaving them and going back to being so bloody _alone_ sounded like dying. 

“Anders.” 

His teeth clicked shut. He’d been muttering to himself apparently. Cara was glaring at him, comb gripped like a weapon she was thinking about lashing out with. “Hm?” 

She shook her head, trying to drag the comb through her hair again, grimacing and making a noise of frustration when it caught and pulled. “Nothing. Just you. And fucking…” She gestured angrily at him, droplets of water hitting him in the chest. “Everything.” She shifted in the tub, the soap-milky water sloshing close to the edge and then stood. 

Anders wasn’t a good enough man to avert his eyes this time, not like last night when she’d been drunk and despondent. But the way his skin prickled and his mouth watered at the sight of her standing in the tub, reaching for a towel was cut short by the stiffness with which she moved, the grimace that had nothing to do with him. He stepped closer as she took a mincing step out with one foot and then the other. 

“I know I look like shit, stop staring.” She cinched the towel tight around her breasts, color rising in her cheeks. “We were talking about whatever cocked up lies Justice is telling you.” 

“What? You don’t-- Maker, Hawke, Justice doesn’t lie and you definitely don’t look like sh--” She cut him off with a sudden sharp pinch to his earlobe, right over the old scar from the earring he once wore there. It wasn’t hard enough to really hurt, well a bit, but it was startling. “Bloody void, what was that for?” 

“You’re flesh! You’re fucking meat that bruises and bleeds and starves to death!” She poked him in the sternum and he took a half step back. “If you’re going to hide from me, you have to find someone else to remind you of that!” 

“I--” 

“Yes you _fucking_ did to.” 

He couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. “You don’t even know what I was going to say!” 

“You weren’t going to try to tell me you weren’t hiding?” Her eyes were narrowed, jaw set, and the way her full mouth pulled into a taut pout made him want to kiss her. 

“I was _going_ to say that there isn’t anyone else that Justice listens to.” 

She rolled her eyes. “No one? No one. Not even that strangely familiar Warden that you were having such a nice fucking evening in with last night?” 

“Cara--” 

She pushed past him and he couldn’t help the way he watched her posture, the careful steps, the hissed intake of breath when she dropped onto the bed, still brandishing the comb. But the words were ringing in his ears, because she was right. For whatever reason, Alistair had managed to pull him out of the spiral of self-abnegation that he’d been stuck in. Whether that was Justice or his own self-loathing, it didn’t matter.

“Fuck.” The fight seemed to have gone out of her, hands dropped into her lap, knotting on top of the damp towel. 

Anders moved closer, and prised the comb from her fingers before settling onto the bed behind her. “For what it’s worth, I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” He pulled her hair back over her shoulders and sighed softly. “You really should have brushed this before you got it wet, you know.” 

“You give the worst fucking apologies, you know?” Her voice took on a nasal timbre that absolutely sounded _nothing_ like him. “‘Yes, Hawke, you were definitely right about this one thing here, but let’s not dwell on that, I’d like to lecture you on your hair combing technique instead.’” 

“Well if you weren’t constantly interrupting me, I wouldn’t have to get all those words out at once.” He began slowly teasing the snarls from the wet ends of her rat’s nest. 

She huffed softly but subsided without arguing. They sat in silence for several minutes while he picked and teased and straightened and untangled, interrupted by occasional hisses and flinches when he hit a tender patch. There was no reason to hurry, and he took his time, enjoying the warmth of the skin on the back of her neck and her bare shoulders as his finger brushed over them, a slight tingle settling in the tips each time it happened. Maker, he’d missed her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her from behind, pull her into his lap and bury his face in her neck, breath her and be the man who loved her. But there were still things to say. 

By the time he was pulling the comb freely through her hair she wasn’t sitting quite so rigidly, but every time he thought she’d relax into him she’d flinch and stiffen. He set the comb aside and pressed a hand to the small of her back over the scar that the Arishok’s blade had caused. He’d been unable to heal it completely when she was so weak from loss of blood and the complete expenditure of her own magic. She flinched harder at the press of his hand, scooting forward and off the bed entirely. 

He hadn’t had a chance to cast even a flicker of magic to see where the pain was coming from, and she was glaring at him like he’d dropped ice down her back. “Maybe instead of looking like you want to bite my fingers off you’ll let me help?” 

The flicker in her eyes as they narrowed and then slid away from his face, looking toward the door, made him feel ill. The wariness there masked by a sullen flex of her jaw felt like a slap. Which was perhaps deserved. 

“Or, yes, I suppose you could just suffer and glare, but why when you don’t have to?” 

“I don’t have to.” 

“Well, no?” He frowned at her. 

“I don’t fucking have to!” Her nostrils were flaring and he could smell the hot metal scent of her lightning, though there weren’t any sparks on her hands where she was holding up the towel, or her hair, which was still damp and heavy down her back. “You abandon me for weeks with potions and my own incompetence but I don’t have to fucking suffer? You are such a fucking asshole!” 

“Hawke--” 

“Don’t you fucking ‘Hawke’ me right now, Anders!” The words barely made it past her gritted teeth. “Don’t you _dare_.” 

The door behind her opened because, of course it would, Alistair returned right when it looked like she was about to finally murder him. He shouldered in carrying a large basket in one hand, a bundle wrapped in a cloak in the other, and his eyebrows lifted. “And I arrive just in time, once again.” 

She spun, and this time there were sparks of lightning on her knuckles. 

“Or perhaps, a bit early?” Alistair dropped the bundle next to the door and pushed it closed. “Because we had this discussion earlier about who was going to have to tell you and suffer all the consequences of angry electrocution, but I didn’t think Anders would have--” 

“Alistair!” 

“Tell me what?” Her eyes flashed back to Anders and there was confusion and murder there in equal measure, all furious, sharp inside her flushed cheeks and he wasn’t sure that now when she was ready to fight was the best time to explain that he and Alistair had tugged each other off on her void-taken library floor. The silence stretched a beat too long. “Tell me fucking what, Anders?” 

“Ah you didn’t explain then, well… I--” 

“Maybe since Alistair has so many brilliant ideas about what has been said, what should be said, and when it is appropriate to say them, he could be the one to share, since we’re not getting anywhere with the fact that your partial evisceration hasn’t healed correctly and you won’t let me see it.” Anders wasn’t sure her face could flush darker, but it did, oh yes it did, but at least she was glaring at Alistair now. 

“This is really not what I was… Maker’s breath. I leave you two alone for an hour, and you’re fighting about whether or not your guts were put back in the right way?” Alistair shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he set the basket on the sideboard. “Look: you and him.” He waggled a finger between Cara and Anders. “You and me.” He made the same vague gesture between her and himself. “And him and me.” His finger was less sure this time, a quick twitch from himself to Anders and then met his other index finger in the briefest of touches. “A bit. Just a, you know… little. And now you’re going to let Anders look at you?” 

The expression that shifted over her face was complicated. That was really the only way that Anders could describe it. Angry and narrow, then confused, and then almost… relieved? Sad though. What was she doing, looking down and away, while her lip trembled and her lashes dipped? “Oh.” 

“Oh?” Alistair echoed her, his head tilting as he tried to see her face which she hid from him behind a curtain of her damp hair. “You said that last night too, several times. What does ‘oh’ mean exactly?” 

She shook her head, shoulders drawing up and in. Anders scooted forward on the bed, feet planted on the floor, trying to decide if he should go to her or keep explaining or find somewhere to hide. “Cara, sweetheart, you have to talk to us. We-- it never should have happened like it did, and then the next six weeks we were both trying to stay out of the way, and--” 

“Wait, fucking wait, what?” Her head jerked up to stare at him. “You… let me try to-- fucking idiots. Okay, you fucked or whatever right after, _right fucking after_ the Qunari cock up.” Anders bobbed his head to the side, watching Alistair flush a dark red under his beard, and wanting to correct her because _fucking_ was a bit generous for their almost adolescent encounter, but she held up a hand that was positively laced with the violet sparks of her magic. “Shh. I’m still… Fine. So, yes, what the night of--” She drew in a long breath through her nose. 

“I was drunk and we thought you were dying, if that… does that help? At all?” Alistair took a step closer to her and the bed. He was either very brave or had very little sense. 

“And then, because I’m such a shitty, complicated mess you both thought I’d throw you out or over or off or whatever the fuck?” She had tears rolling down her face when she looked up at Anders and his breath caught in his throat. “But you were both, both of you, alone?” 

“Cara--” 

“Or you were each trying to get out of the way so that the other one could what, pet my hair and fuck me better?” 

“Er--” 

“And that’s why I haven’t seen or heard shit from you. Not because… not because of what I did to--” She broke off, the tears coming faster now, her voice dropping and tightening. She swallowed over and over. “With the Wardens and…” She darted a glance up at Alistair. “I thought you hated me.” 

Alistair, Maker bless him, didn’t hesitate at all. He stepped into her, hands coming up to cup her face and turn it toward his. “Hate you for saving me from a fate worse than death as Elissa’s least favorite lackey?” 

“Topher--” 

Alistair flinched at the name and from where Anders sat he could see the guilt that twisted in his mouth, tightening his eyes. “Please don’t blame yourself for that, Caralyn.” 

“He was just a tool, Elissa’s tool, and I murdered him and let her walk free when she was the one who hurt you--”

“Hurt me?” Alistair sounded like he’d been punched, but she didn’t stop or even slow. 

“--and I was so fucking stupid because she is evil and she’s never going to let it go, but he’s the one who died because I’m so fucking afraid of being that helpless and he was just smiling at me and if I’d killed him to begin with, if I’m just a fucking murderer, if that’s what I do, I should have at least killed the right fucking person.” She finished, clutching the towel tightly around her body still, trying not to look at him and shivering.

“You should never have had to kill _anybody_ on my account, Caralyn.” His voice dropped lower, rough and unsteady. “I’m so sorry you were ever caught up in any of that.” 

“Are you sorry you’re here?” She stared up at him, dragging her upper lip through her teeth. 

“Maker, no.” Alistair’s smile broke slow and soft until Anders could feel the heat from where he sat. His thumbs caught her tears and brushed them away. “I’m going to kiss you now.” He glanced at Anders. “I’m going to kiss her now.” The announcement was hardly out of it before his mouth was on hers, and Anders watched because… well if this was happening, if Hawke had really meant _both_ he needed to know what that looked like. 

It was, as he had supposed, gorgeous. Alistair’s corded arm slid around her waist, rucking the sleeve back to his elbow until his hand was gripping the side of her ribcage just under the swell of her breast. His other hand slipped from her face to the back of her neck, buried in her hair, tilting her head back. She made a small noise in her throat, the kiss a tender, soft thing until she pressed towards him, parting her lips and kissed him back. 

Having kissed Cara quite a number of times himself, he knew how consuming she could be, how demanding, how needy. And that was there, certainly, but the way she let Alistair tip her head, press her closer, hunch down over and around her and she… opened, stretching up, and melting at the same time. If Alistair hadn’t been holding her she would have toppled, that was clear, but there was no danger of that as the arm around her pulled her up to her toes and then settled her back to her feet. 

Anders shifted on the bed, resisting the urge to clear his throat, because he wasn’t sure he wanted them to stop. He wet his lips, watching as Alistair’s mouth trailed to her throat and Cara’s hand gripped his beard, tugging him closer to her and then suddenly pushing him back. “This dead fucking cat on your face has to go.” 

He smirked, but it was relief in his eyes. “You’ll keep the rest of me around then?” 

The smile she wore faded and she glanced over her shoulder at Anders, flushed, lips red and wet, looking uncertain and worried. 

Anders flapped a lazy hand at her, where his elbow rested on his knee, body arched forward so that the loose shirt would hide the fact he was more than half-hard at watching them kiss. “Oh, don’t look at me like he’s a puppy you’re afraid I’m going to say you can’t keep.” He rolled his eyes. “You were the one who said ‘both,’ love, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, looking down at the floor for a moment. 

She needed someone who would put her first, always, and Anders wanted to be, and would never be that man. He wished it were different, wished he didn’t still have the thrumming, buzzing goad in the base of his skull even now telling him he was wasting his time here, knew he wouldn’t forever be able to push it out and away, that eventually he’d have to stop pretending he was allowed these things, that he was only a man, and not a mask. 

He glanced back up to see them both watching him, Alistair hopeful, Hawke, worried. He let one corner of his mouth rise in a crooked smile. “It’s nice having him about to pretty up the place.” 

Alistair snorted and shook his head, but his smile crinkled the corner of his eyes as he leaned down to drop a kiss on the top of Cara’s head. He then nudged her toward the bed. “Let him see your wound and I’ll just get breakfast sorted.” She wrinkled her nose and took the steps toward Anders. 

He took her hand and pulled her closer and she looked down into his face. “You’re okay with all this?” 

Anders smiled and turned her hand to kiss her palm before turning his attention to parting the towel so that he could see the scar on her abdomen. “If I say no are you going to send him back to the Wardens in a sack?” 

“Anders…” 

He frowned at the size of the scar, the color, how rigid it was under his fingers. “Shh, love, you know that I never thought I would have this, any of this, and what we have…” He sighed, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the skin above the scar. “It means everything.” He looked up at her, the tremulous smile on her mouth, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “And I meant what I said. He’s pretty and I like him and you lo-- obviously care a very great deal about him.” He smirked as the sudden panic in her expression smoothed into the usual affectionate scowl. “I love you. There’s no reason, at all, to make it harder than… well than we already have, I suppose.” 

He turned his attention back to her scar, calling his magic up, sending it pulsing into her flesh. 

“Plus it made your cock twitch to watch us kiss.” 

There was a clatter and a hiss from behind her. “Maker’s ass! No, I’m fine, nobody minds a little blood or fingertips on their cheese, Alistair, it’s fine.” 

Cara’s sudden snickering laugh was beautiful and Anders shook his head, laughing with her as he pushed magic into the wound that was poorly healed, finding the scar tissue inflamed. The laughter died as he realized he had caused her this pain, this gnawing, burning hurt by leaving. He frowned at it, pouring more magic into it, hearing her gasp, feeling her hands fall onto his shoulders to steady herself. “Fuck.” 

“I know, nearly there. This is going to help but it won’t be better all at once. But it will help.” She nodded, upper lip caught between her teeth. He’d done what he could to ease her, though it would take more healing and possibly excision of the scar tissue to be truly better. He rested his forehead against her stomach and let out a shaky breath as her fingers wound into his hair. “I’m so sorry for leaving you alone to hurt.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

He coughed a bitter laugh. “I’m fairly certain I was the one hiding from the both of you in Darktown.” 

“You weren’t the only one hiding, Anders.” She tugged on his hair, making him look up at her. He felt the tight coil of guilt loosen a little, even though it wasn’t warranted. It eased further when she murmured, soft as he’d ever heard her, “And I forgive you, if it helps.” 

He nodded, blinking back the stinging in his eyes as she clambered into his lap and covered his mouth with hers and kissed him, every bit as warm and seeking, needing as she’d kissed Alistair. Her kiss was a desperate, wondering question, and he pulled her hard against him, finding himself in her scent and the silk of hair falling around his face, the weight of her on his lap, more himself than he’d been since the Qunari had attacked, and tried with lips and tongue and teeth to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's the platform for them to attempt to be a trio. I'm planning on Chapter 50 to be a smutty one, but I'd love to hear if people feel like they're ready for that. 
> 
> As always, you guys are amazing and thank you so much for sticking with me for long. <3


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which these three disasters fall together instead of apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it only took like a year longer than I thought, but here, have some naked threesome action for the 50th chapter of this nonsense.

There was no fucking way this was real. It had to be some kind of Fade loop or demon trap but if it was it was way better than any of the bullshit they’d ever come up with before. Anders pulled back from the kiss, eyes studying Hawke with a glassy sort of disbelief she could relate to. 

“I am actually bleeding over here if anyone is interested in that.” Alistair’s voice broke the strange, befuddled staring contest they’d settled into and she shifted, trying to find her way off of Anders’ lap and not lose her towel in the process. 

It didn’t help when Anders’ pinched her ass when she finally shifted over enough to find her feet. The finger that she pointed at his long nose was almost a threat, but there was too much giddy, aching relief in her chest to actually be irritated at him. Especially when he was looking at her with those eyes, amber and warm, the smile in them seeming to go all the way down. 

She found Alistair smiling at her, well at both of them really, and she felt that wave of unreality wash over her again that they were both willing to put up with her at the same time. She shook her head, reached for his hand and healed the tiny nick on the tip of his middle finger that was barely oozing blood.

“There, your terrible injury has completely expended my healing abilities, you big fucking cry baby.” She found herself lifting his hand and kissing the palm as she grumbled at him, and his fingers tucked under her chin and lifted her face. 

“My hero.” He ran his thumb along the edge of her lower lip, his smile lopsided and warm. “Now, you eat, feed the scarecrow in the bed.” 

“You’re not hungry?” Anders arched an eyebrow, shifting where he sat. He was doing a bad job hiding his half-hard cock and Hawke rolled her eyes at him. 

“Mm. Ate while I was out.” Alistair reached up to scratch at the beard on his chin and then smiled down at her with an arched eyebrow. “I am under specific orders about this. Besides, you both smell lovely, while I smell like Lowtown.” He gave a little shudder and nudged Hawke toward the sideboard as he stepped around the screen. 

They were maddening, the two of them, all of a sudden closing around her to make sure everything was okay, and fuck if she didn’t want to just let them. To trust that this time she wouldn’t do something that would get them hurt or killed or send them running far and fast away from her. She shook her head, and frowned at the food Alistair had brought. Sausage rolls and hard cheese, nothing spectacular, but it was _edible_ and there was about fifty pounds of it. “Fuck,” she whispered, giving a soft shaky laugh. 

Anders stepped up next to her, a hand going to her back, stroking down her spine. “It doesn’t look bad.” He reached for a sausage roll and had half of it in his mouth almost before he finished his sentence. 

“Fucking void, Anders.” Hawke’s laugh startled her and she raised her fingers to press the sting from her eyes. “Orana is going to have to hire help to keep up with both of you.” 

The squeak of the pump from the other side of the room stopped suddenly and when she looked up she found Anders watching her, eyes gone all soft as he tilted his head. 

“What, do you not want-- fuck, that was stupid, no, I mean, you can have your room, or whatever you want and you don’t have to be--” 

It looked painful how suddenly Anders had to swallow the enormous bite he’d taken in order to interrupt her. “Cara, stop for a minute, please. Just take a breath.” 

The breath she took was irritated and through her nose, and her cheeks were burning with embarrassment. How was she so terrible at this? 

“Okay, now, are you saying you want both of us to move back into the estate?” 

There were few things she could think of that she wanted more. She wanted them to come the fuck _home_. “If--” 

“Ah ah. Yes or no.”Anders held up a finger as he interrupted her again and she glared at it, then glared at him. He was using his fucking healer-knows-best voice at her. 

“I fucking hate--” 

“Cara.” His lips twitched in amusement and she could _swear_ she heard a soft snicker from Alistair. 

“Fine, yes, okay, yes. Yes, I’m an idiot and would love it if more fucking idiots came and lived in my stupid fucking idiot house!” It took her a moment to find her composure, because she was blushing so hard and she couldn’t look at Anders and was intensely glad Alistair was on the other side of Isabela’s screen. She swallowed. “I’m sorry, I know I was just saying I never wanted to go home, but only because I hate being there alone.” 

Anders’ bony arms closed around her and tugged her against his equally bony chest. “We’ll sort it out, love, I promise.”

It wasn’t a yes, but she also hadn’t phrased it as a question, so maybe it didn’t matter? She buried her face in his shirt and nodded. It was good enough. It was more than she’d hoped she’d ever have again. 

After a few moments of stillness the pump started to squeak again. Anders made her take food and pushed her to sit on the bed before disappearing to heat Alistair’s bath water. Quiet murmurs of thanks and then a soft, embarrassed chuckle, and it made her insides _ache_. 

She ate quietly, still wrapped in nothing but her towel, watching Anders demolish the food and thanking him when he stopped chewing long enough to bring her a mug of tepid milk tea that had been sweetened with honey. When she was full, ignoring the slight frown Anders gave her when she refused a second helping, she stretched out sideways on the bed and to watch his profile as he finished his fourth pastry and then began to clean the crumbs off his face and off his shirt. Out of his fucking hair. 

Her smile was slow and sleepy. She felt warm and loose, the relief from Anders healing so loud it was pleasure in itself. She hummed when he pressed a soft kiss against her shoulder. She never wanted that to stop, she decided, but she was drifting, and it seemed safe for once not to fight it. To not worry and let herself rest. And that was fucking nice. 

*******

The warm weight of Alistair’s cheek resting on her hand woke her with a start from the dream she’d been having about the party the night before, only instead of failing to fuck Benedict Trevelyan on the terrace she’d had to duel the Arishok out there with nothing but a broom that had most of the corn broken off. 

She opened her eyes to find her cheek resting on her own arm which was stretched out in front of her and Alistair nuzzling gently into her palm, lying on his side and facing her. He was mostly clean shaven, except for a very tidy and neatly trimmed mustache and goatee that he was bristling against her wrist. She cupped her fingers against his jaw and his eyes came up to meet hers. 

“Hello there.” 

She grunted at him, trying to smother the stupid smile she could feel growing on her mouth. 

“Do I pass inspection?” His hazel eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he smiled back at her, and in the lamplight she could pick out the gold and the green in equal measure. 

“Do you feel inspected?” 

His chuckle rasped in his throat and he kissed up the soft skin of the inside of her arm, stopping at the crook of her elbow to nip her lightly. His mouth was warm and sweet, teeth a light scrape that made her shiver and want to press closer but she wasn’t sure… where Anders was, what they both wanted, how this all worked. All that terrible pirate-advice she’d wished for the night before suddenly seemed like it wouldn’t be that terrible.

Alistair shifted to move his face closer to hers, eyes studying her with a melting tenderness in the quirk of his brows and the tiny smile on his mouth. “Maker, how I missed you,” he breathed against her lips, nose brushing the side of hers. 

There were words in her throat, filling her mouth, things she wanted to say to him, but when she tried, “Fuck, Alistair,” was the only thing that came out. So instead she closed the hairsbreadth gap to kiss him. 

As soon as her mouth met hers his arm closed around her waist, dragging her against his body. He was shirtless again after his bath, and she’d lost her towel mostly as she slept. Her breasts met his warm skin, the slight catch of his chest hair, still damp and soft, dragging at her nipples. 

She gasped, open throated, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth. 

Her hands moved to grip his hair, which had also been trimmed, because there wasn’t much length to grab, but she needed the anchor as his mouth drank her. 

He rolled her half under him, pressing her into the mattress as his knee slid between her legs and she arched off the bed toward him, teeth dragging against his lip and a whine in her throat. His fingers tangled in her hair and he broke the kiss, having to hold her down as he backed away, breath harsh as the muscles in his arms and shoulders twitched with his effort at control. 

She relaxed by slow inches, panting, letting the tug in her scalp ground her. It didn’t hurt, he was just holding her still and it made the ache that had been gutting her since he’d kissed her the night before twist and throb in new ways. “Easy,” he murmured, lips falling to her forehead. “Easy, Caralyn.” 

“I’m fucking terrible at easy.”

“That is the Maker’s own truth. I’m certain they sing of it in the Chant.” Anders’ low, easy humor surprised her and she turned her head to see him wiping a towel over his now clean-shaven face as he smirked down at her. 

He shaved infrequently, and it always made him look younger, almost too pretty, with softer jaw and cheeks. As thin as he was now, the softness wasn’t there, but he didn’t look as haggard with the scraggly weeks upon weeks worth of growth gone. 

“Get off, you fucking bronto.” Hawke wriggled and pushed at Alistair, and he chuckled as he rolled away, resting on his side with his head in his hand. She grabbed at the towel that was tangled under her and covered her front, frowning up at Anders, then shooting a glance over at Alistair. “Right. Your turns.” She gave a small jerk of her chin toward him, then arched her brow at Anders. 

“My turn…?” Anders wet his lower lip, a glint of amusement entering his golden eyes, but there was also a quiet sort of yearning that Hawke had become very familiar with just before they had finally started fucking. 

Alistair cleared his throat and sat up, the flush in his cheeks much easier to read now that the scruffy beard was gone. 

“You’ve both been eye-fucking each other since last night. You both actually drooled watching each other kiss me.” She wriggled up to sit leaned against the headboard. “So go on then.” 

“Ah, we haven’t-- I mean we did, but it isn’t... “ Alistair’s ability to go from bend-her-over-a-barrel confidence to stammering boy was astonishing, and fucking adorable.

Anders huffed a small laugh, eyebrows raising in a tidy affronted expression. “We bloody well have done. Drunk or not, don’t think I’d forget that sort of kissing.” 

“No, it isn’t-- Maker, it’s just... “ He looked at Hawke with a searching worry. “Will it bother you?” 

“I told you already it didn’t matter.” She twisted the fingers of one hand in the edge of her towel. How could she explain it? That the thought of them together warmed places that she’d never been aware of being cold, that the parts of her that were too hard and too sharp to do anything other than hurt the people she loved wouldn’t be the only place either of them had to land? That she loved them so fucking much and wanted _everything_ for them, from them, with them? “Don’t do it if you don’t fucking want to, but don’t stop yourself because you think I’ll be hurt because I won’t. You’re here now, both of you, and you want me like complete fucking crazy people, but you do, and that’s… that’s good. So, if you want each other, I want that too?” She knuckled her forehead. “Why are these words so fucking stupid?” 

The bed shifted as Alistair knelt up to lean over and kiss her bare shoulder, lips hot and wet and sending goosebumps down her arm. He shifted to kiss the side of her neck, the corner of her jaw, the point of her chin and then slid off the bed and walked toward Anders. He was wearing just a pair of loose trousers that hung low on his hips, barefoot as he padded toward the other man. 

It was a bit of a stalk, really, his chin dropped, his body loose and Anders took a shaky step back and bumped against the wall as he watched Alistair approach. Hawke had been on the receiving end of that particular look and it was interesting to watch Anders’ lips part as he looked up at Alistair, flushing and shifting his feet. They were close to the same height, but Alistair was so much bigger and the way he crowded Anders up against the wall was shocking. 

Hawke was sure that his boyish blushing and general embarrassment meant he’d never fucked another man before whatever he and Anders had done, but he could also be so careful reading her and maybe he could just see the want in Anders, the way he responded and he knew how to stand too close, a hand rising to cup Anders face and tip his head back until he could kiss him, hard and open and without reservation. 

Anders melted into the kiss, bony angles turning into soft arches, letting go of the towel he’d been holding around his waist. His hands settled on Alistair’s sides then circled round and slid down to his ass, tugged him closer, causing them both to groan as their hips met. 

That sound… 

The sudden sizzling want in Hawke’s veins at the sound of their voices was a surprise. She wet her lips as she shifted down on the bed to curl onto her side, thighs pressed hard together as she watched Anders rut into Alistair. For his part Alistair gave a low grunt and drew back to lower his mouth to Anders’ throat, exhaling shakily. 

Anders pressed his face against Alistair’s ear and whispered something, a hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck. Whatever he was saying Hawke could see Alistair’s ears slowly turning pink, his shoulders coving slightly as he leaned harder into Anders and then nodded. 

“How does that sound?” Anders asked quietly. 

“Good. R-really. Yes.” Alistair pushed away, straightening slowly and moved back toward her, smile a little tentative as he studied her. “Okay?” 

Hawke barked a hoarse laugh, feeling suddenly, perilously close to tears. She nodded and turned her face into the silk of the ridiculous sheets, hiding her glassy eyes and flaming cheeks. Shit. Fucking shit fuck. They were so fucking _perfect_ together and she shouldn’t feel so greedy and grateful. 

“Hey, love, what’s wrong?” Anders dropped onto the bed behind her, hand on her hair, so gentle as he tried to pull it back from her face. She shook her head, trying to steady her breathing, find any sort of control. 

“Caralyn.” Alistair’s voice made her turn her head to look at him where he’d dropped to kneel next to the bed, putting him on eye level. He reached out a hand to brush her cheek. “Please tell us what we did so we can not do that anymore.” 

“Nothing. Nothing’s fucking wrong. That’s what’s wrong. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my face. I don’t have anything to shout at. It feels so good to look at you both and think you want to be here, that you like me, that it cocking _hurts_.” She reached back to grab Anders’ hand and pull it forward, kissing the knuckles and then resting it on Alistair’s hand. “And I want you both to fuck me so fucking bad.” She had to turn her face back into the cool silk of the sheets then, because that hadn’t been what she’d meant to say. Her face was on fire. 

“Cara, why are you hiding?” Anders lips brushed along the back of her neck while Alistair’s hand settled on her hip, sliding underneath her towel to scrape hard callouses against her soft skin. “What do you think I just asked Alistair?” 

“How he likes his fucking tea? How should I know?” Hawke shivered at the chuckle against her neck, the way Alistair’s hand slid gently down the swell of her hip and then back up to the curve of her waist. 

“He likes it with milk and no honey, and no that isn’t what I asked him.” 

Alistair’s hand froze and Hawke lifted her face enough to catch a glimpse of the strange smile he was shooting at Anders. Maker’s cock, it was like he’d just been offered his heart’s desire, that someone knew how he took his fucking _tea_. 

“So what did you ask him then?” 

“Whether we could all live with Isabela’s bed being the first place we, all three of us, um--” Alistair’s hand stroked over her hip again. 

“Fucked?” 

“I think I said made love, but I know you like the word ‘fucked’ rather a lot more.” Anders mouth moved to the top of her shoulder and she raised her arm to curl it back and run her fingers into his hair. 

The word love made her tighten, all over, a dizzy sort of spin in her head, a ringing in her ears. She cast another shy glance at Alistair, trying to imagine that out of his mouth. “And he said yes?” 

“I think I nodded, but mostly I just didn’t think finding someplace else to do it would end well. Would Aveline arrest us for public indecency if we only made it halfway to the estate?” Alistair’s thumb grazed over her hipbone and he smiled. 

She felt drunk, her scalp prickling, her skin too sensitive to Alistair’s fingers and Anders’ mouth, and she was losing sight of the land of the reasonable. She pulled on Anders’ hair a little harder, felt his teeth nip against her neck in answer and then reached out to tug Alistair up off the floor and onto the bed, bringing him close so she could kiss him. 

Pressed between them now, it was different than the night before, when it had been simple comfort. Now, there was skin and mouths and want. With some shifting she had been peeled out of the towel, stretched out on her side with Anders spooned up behind her. He was naked too, the hard length of his cock pressing against her ass as he ground forward. Alistair lifted one of her legs over his hips as he pressed tight to her, his mouth taking hers, consuming and drugging and slow. 

He was still wearing his loose pants and Hawke dug her fingers between them to start loosening the drawstring, trying to tug them open and push them away with no space and only one hand. His fingers caught her wrist and drew it up to kiss her palm. “Greedy,” he murmured. 

She was, she knew that. She arched her back to rub her ass against Anders and he groaned into her hair, one of his hands sliding up to cup her breast, fingers closing over her nipple and pinching, before they moved to Alistair’s chest, spreading wide over the broad flats of his muscles, tips trailing along his collarbone. 

Their mouths met over her shoulder and Hawke pressed open mouthed kisses against the tender skin of Alistair’s throat, tasting the soap he’d used to shave and the hint of smoke and salt under that. Her teeth nipped him and his hand shifted to cup her ass, never breaking the kiss with Anders. 

“Fuck.” Her voice sounded broken in her own ears. “Please.” She was going to combust if they didn’t do _something_. 

They parted and she craned her neck to draw Anders down to kiss her and Alistair put a little space between them, tugging open his trousers and shoving them off. She and Anders broke their kiss and she stared at Alistair, the freckles on his pale chest and arms, the ginger hair that trailed from his navel to his cock.

“Well, that’s just bloody gorgeous.” Anders shifted, around from behind her, drawing a hand down the line of Alistair’s torso and then took his hand, tugging him up. 

Alistair was blushing under Anders’ attention, and Hawke wanted to lick the heat on the back of his neck, taste it. She watched Anders pull him to sit at the edge of the bed, and then flushed herself when Anders beckoned for her. “Come here, sweetheart.” 

A sudden rush of apprehension that she hadn’t expected caused her to glance between them, throw a frown at the painted screen. It seemed fairly fucking pointed now, an indelicate suggestion about how this could go. “I don’t know what--” 

“Cara, love, it’s okay. I’m sure getting both our pricks in you at once will be magical, but it’s an ambitious project for another day.” Anders ducked his head slightly, his smile turning wicked in a way she had seen very few times on his lips. “I just want to taste both of you” 

Hawke was blushing fiercely she was sure, unable to look at Alistair, wondering what he was thinking. Fucking void that was… she slid up next to him and gasped when his arm closed around her waist and lifted her into his lap. 

“Did you plan this? While I was fucking sleeping?” She didn’t know whether that aggravated her, that they had… _colluded_ , or if it made the heat inside her twist tighter until it _burned_ , because whatever they had decided it was clear it was about both of them touching her. 

Alistair whispered, "No, just now,” against her ear as he buried his face in her hair. "Not just about where we'd make love to you, but how." 

She could feel his heart pounding against her back as he scooted her tight against his chest, lifting her legs to straddle the outside of his thighs and then spreading his own knees, pulling her open. His cock, painfully hard, rubbed between her legs and she whimpered as he reached down to part her labia, running his fingers through her thatch of dark hair and pressed the shaft against her cunt. 

“What are you fucking waiting for?” she hissed, trying to rut down, to find an angle that would push him inside, but his arm on her waist held her still.

“Were you always this pushy?” 

Anders snorted softly as he went to his knees on the floor between their legs. “She’s being surprisingly biddable, actually. Your influence is… interesting.” 

The growl that was building in Hawke’s throat turned into a ragged gasp when Anders lowered his face and licked the head of Alistair’s cock, the swirl of his tongue catching her clit briefly and then slipping away. She hissed softly at the loss of the contact, her whole body trying to clench and catch.

Alistair’s own breathing was ragged in her ear, and his hand slid up her front to cup her throat, fingers feathering lightly over her racing pulse. “We have you, Caralyn, we have you.” His thumb soothed over the line of her jaw and her eyes fluttered, tipping her head back to rest it against his shoulder. 

The return of Anders’ tongue made her gasp and buck. Alistair’s arm at her waist tightened again and she was lost in the slick flicks of that tongue against her clit, while the backs of his knuckles dragged against her slit as he languidly pulled at Alistair’s cock, slick from her writhing over him, alternated with his nose rubbing against her as he swallowed Alistair down. 

Alistair’s hard, arching body behind her, his breath ragged in her ear, anchored her, heavy and safe while the fire of Anders’ mouth was drawing her higher, her magic a sizzling hum under her skin that she had to force back, over and over. 

“Come on, sweetheart, you don’t have to hold back.” Anders sucked gently on her clit while two fingers slid inside her, dragging magic with them, stroking and crooking and she broke. Control gone, sparks rose to the surface and shattered in tiny violet webs of magic as she came with a high, sudden wail. 

“Oh, sweet Maker.” Alistair’s grip on her was bruising hard and suddenly he was shifting, hands under her to lift her up. “I need--” 

She nodded, frantic as Anders fingers slipped out of her. “Fuck, please.” He helped adjust their angles, fingers slick with her and the head of Alistair’s cock breached her, a slow push while she wriggled and tried to take more. 

“Alistair, _please_.” Her voice gasping his name drew a ragged groan out of him and with a flex of his hips and a subtle shift of her weight in his lap, she was full-- taut, stretched, achingly full in one slick glide. Alistair’s cock seated deep, rubbing hard against the throbbing spot inside her, was unrelenting and perfect after the gentle touch of Anders’ fingers and mouth. 

They started slowly, moving together, Alistair rocking his hips in short, slow thrusts that were making her fucking crazy. She tried to sit forward to get leverage so she could ride him, but Anders put a hand over her heart, fingers trailing through the sparks she couldn’t stop shedding, pushed her back against Alistair and bent his head again. 

His tongue slipped over her, down to where Alistair’s cock had her full and quivering, lower, to the bottom of his shaft. The noise Alistair made against the side of her neck was a broken, ragged moan and she lifted her head to see Anders mouthing his sack, smirking up at her. His free hand, the one not on her tits now, drawing sparks and trails over her nipples, was on his own cock, dragging slow, long strokes as he moaned around Alistair’s balls. 

It was madness, in her blood, on her skin, her magic roaring and surging and cascading in harmless sparks and lights. Alistair caught her chin and turned her head far enough that he could kiss her, tongue sliding in slow, heavy and thick, the way his cock split her open. The angle of it, the sensation that they were all over her, the way both their hands were everywhere, it was too much and she came again, a gutteral sound, almost pain, in her throat, muffled Alistair’s open, wanting mouth..

When he broke the kiss, breathing harsh, resting his forehead on the top of her shoulder, his thighs were trembling under her, the muscles of his stomach twitching against her lower back. Anders kissed his way up her stomach to her breasts, sucked a nipple into his mouth, and then knelt up to kiss her properly, mouth wet and tangy. When he broke to let her breathe, gasping like she was drowning, tiny noises she didn’t recognize in her throat, he nuzzled into Alistair’s sweat-darkened hair and whispered, “I think Cara needs you to fuck her properly now.” 

Hawke wasn’t even sure what that meant compared to what they’d been doing. Alistair’s soft, hissed groan seemed to give a clue. “Help me move-- yes, just there.” Between the two of them they shifted her forward slightly, letting her lean into Anders who kissed and licked at her neck, sucked on her ear, trailed sizzling spark-lit kisses down to the tops of her breasts as Alistair’s hands shifted her just a touch more and then he began to move. 

It wasn’t the gentle rocking from before. He couldn’t draw back far enough to truly pound into her, but the thrusts were deep and strong, each one drawing a keen as she found the rhythm and rocked forward and back down onto him, harder with each pass until the slap of her ass meeting his stomach was audible above their ragged voices. 

“You are so beautiful, Cara. So, bloody beautiful on him.” She looked down at Anders who was leaning back, working his cock with his slender, clever fingers, staring up at her with shining eyes. 

She reached out a hand toward him. “Come here. Fucking come here. I need to touch you. Come the fuck here, Anders.”

He slid toward her, and she drew him back up onto his knees, so that she could reach between them and grab his cock. She let her head fall onto his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her, helping hold her up as Alistair fucked into her, growling. 

One of Anders hands left Caralyn’s waist, and from the sound Alistair made it was on him somewhere, throwing sparks, drawing little flutters of her own magic with it. She let him fuck her hand in the same rhythm Alistair had set in her cunt and when he came across the inside of their thighs, through her fingers, his magic sharpened and Alistair stuttered, gripping her hips and grinding her down until she thought she’d split and he gasped and pulsed and shattered, as she gasped and rocked against him, riding him as he came. 

The weight of the two of them, each slumped toward her, hands moving in small aimless ways over her back and thighs, each others shoulders and arms, it should have been fucking suffocating, but she wanted them closer. _Wanted_. 

She couldn’t stop twitching her hips, a tiny sob of frustration in her throat as she rode out the end of Alistair’s orgasm. Thank the fucking Maker his cock was slow to soften even as he caught his breath, still rubbing just right inside. She ached, the burn in her thighs from the pressure of meeting his thrusts, and she was coiled tight, sparks still slipping from her fingertips as she raked her nails over Anders shoulders. “Fuck, please, just--” 

“Here, Caralyn, here.” Alistair panted against her neck as he reached down to rub his fingers over her clit, three hard, almost painfully firm strokes before Anders’ own clever, singing finger slid through the the mess of their come and breached her alongside Alistair’s cock, the stretch making her mewl and writhe and bear down. 

“Good, Cara. Oh love. You are so--” Anders turned his mouth to hers again as he fucked her with his finger, even as she felt Alistair twitch inside her again. 

“Maker’s breath. Are you ready again? Can you?” Alistair managed a proper thrust timed with Anders hand, and it was all wreathed in heat and sparks. She couldn’t make words around the tongue in her mouth, just a rough keening, _pleading_. “Yes? Then come along, Caralyn.” 

He swirled the fingers that were pressing her clit. Anders magic lanced through her. She came undone, arching and shaking, vision black and furred at the corners, able to feel everything, everywhere they touched her like it was fire, but without even knowing where her fucking edges were. It pulsed and clenched and raced through her, first like roaring, and then in tiny waves lapping lower and lower until she could breath again and her heavy limbs and sated heart made her close her eyes. She let them hold her, pet her, lay her out and wipe warm cloths and soft kisses over her skin. 

There weren’t any words for everything that was churning in her, but she didn’t care for once, it didn’t make her feel like twisting away and fighting every flutter in her chest. Caralyn could just love them, heart naked and open, whispering her devotion with the brush of her fingers, the press of her lips. 

It was a fever, a madness, but it was no longer a riddle with no answer. This puzzle, this moment, had been solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, there we go. I hope that it wasn't too much? That it was enough? That my overly convoluted sentences weren't too confusing and everyone had the appropriate number of hands. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading this far, for leaving me wonderful comments I haven't always had the wherewithal to reply to, and for generally being awesome. I'm not exaggerating when I say that connecting with the Dragon Age fandom, and writing this story, literally saved my life. 
> 
> <3


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair decides to fight.

“I’m fucking going.” 

“You bloody are well not!” 

The scent of metal was in the air, the strange tinge of lightning that wasn’t quite a smell the way flowers were, or unwashed sock. As Alistair came through the door, shaking rain from his hair with a clammy hand, he stopped to listen, the hair on his arms prickling. The voices resounded in the foyer of the estate, and when Bodhan came bustling up to him with round eyes and hands eager to take some of his packages, a door slammed hard enough to make the chandelier sway. 

“So, ah, that… doesn’t sound good.” This wasn’t the first argument that Caralyn and Anders had been noisy about in the two weeks since they had, all three of them, been living in her estate, but it was the first he’d caught out while it was still happening. They were oddly good at hiding whatever it was they were snarling about from him, which was… bad. It felt bad. That either there was something important that they didn’t want him to know, or were trying to protect him from… either way it gave him a bitter heaviness in his gullet. 

“You know how the lady of the house is, messere!” Alistair grimaced at the honorific, but it was certainly better than the my-lording, and ser-wardening he’d gotten at first. Bodhan took the wrapped parcels from his arms and winced at the second door slamming, though he tried to hide it. 

“I don’t suppose you know what all the yelling was about this time?” Or any time. The last three days had been particularly tense between Caralyn and Anders and he suspected it was all the same yelling that they were swallowing when they saw him and then distracted him from asking about by tumbling him into bed. 

And not even that, last night, with Anders apparently gone to the clinic to work for the evening and Alistair falling asleep in front of the fire in the library while Caralyn read with her head in his lap. He’d woke in her bed, only the muzziest memories of her prodding him along, when the sun was long up and she was gone. 

“Ah, well, I don’t know that I should say.” Bodhan shook his head, tutting at the very idea. 

“Bodhan, you’re turning all that funny shade of red you get when you’re trying not to gossip and I’m worried you’re going to burst a vein.” Alistair would wheedle if he had to. He wasn’t proud. 

The dwarf gave him a placid glance as he led the way to the work table in the kitchen. “My, are all these Orana’s? What’s that girl up to now?” He hefted one box that had his eyebrows lifting, and Alistair plucked it out of his hands.

“Oh, uh, no, there were… things. That I needed to pick up! Which is why I got her spices and things - different things - and I hope they aren’t too wet from the rain, but oil-cloth, you know.” Alistair could feel his cheeks heating as Bodhan peered up at him. He laughed, the forced sound making his ears sting as well, and grabbed two additional parcels from the pile. 

He made it to the kitchen door, glanced down at the stack of packages in his arms, and then darted back to where Sandal was turning over a small wooden box with a hinged lid. He snatched it out of the boys hands with an apologetic chuckle and then darted out of the room. 

The things inside the boxes, small presents, trifles and idiocies, the kinds of things he’d never had occasion to buy anyone before, now seemed like a terrible idea. It was presumptive, and foolish, and with all the unrest over the past few days, seemed even more idiotic, since they were probably winding up to ask him to leave. 

That was the weight that had been growing in his chest, aching, bitter, worry that after that first blissful week when it was nothing but sweet, drugging kisses and warm piles of sleep-heavy limbs in the night, that either Caralyn or Anders (or more likely both) had come to their senses and decided that the novelty was over and he could show himself out. 

At the top of the stairs he paused, glancing from the shut library door to the bedroom - Caralyn’s - that they’d been sharing, also closed. And that choice wasn’t a field of grass full of poisoned bear traps that would set him on fire, at all. Alistair glanced at the packages again and chose the bedroom. 

He tapped lightly and then opened the door without waiting to be told to enter or to go away, because if he was going to crowd her enough to get answers, he was going to have to commit to it… and probably a bite mark or two. He settled the parcels onto the dressing table near the door and then turned. 

His eyebrows lifted as he saw Caralyn buckling herself into one of her armored hybrid robes, all dark leather and quilted wool and silk. The belts cinched her waist in a way that was extremely fetching and it reminded him of the set she’d worn to the quarry the night he’d decided he probably was absolutely, idiotically in love with her. 

Well, he hadn’t admitted it, but in retrospect, it was true. 

She stomped her feet, settling them into the boots and then bent to close the row of buckles there as well. She looked up at him from the tousled fall of her hair, eyes narrowed, but her expression changed to… guilt when she saw him. 

Guilt. That was not really what he’d ever hoped to see when she looked at him. 

“So, I see you’re wearing murder clothes.” Alistair cocked his head. “Who are we murdering?” 

Caralyn scowled at him, tugging at the fastening of her boots a final time like she was thinking about strangling him with the tiny strips of leather. “We aren’t murdering anyone.” 

“No? Are you sure? Or are you murdering me? That’s sort of a ‘we’ activity.” 

She stalked to her dresser and picked up a comb, tugging it through her thick hair with impatient, angry strokes. “No, I’m not fucking murdering you either.” 

“But you’re murdering someone?” He walked toward her, hesitantly. 

“That does sound a lot fucking like me, right?” The muscles in her jaw were working as she refused to look at him, pulling at a snarl she’d hit. 

“Caralyn, let me help.” He reached out and caught her hand and she relinquished the comb with a disgruntled noise. He turned her around with a gentle hand on her shoulder and began combing out the snarls she’d managed to work into the bottom of her hair. She relaxed slowly as he combed, occasionally smoothing a hand over her crown and down the back of her head, a gentle pet. “Did you want it braided?” he asked quietly. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“Well, lucky for me, I want to.” He’d learned how to brush and braid women’s hair while travelling with Elissa, and it was a simple pleasure to wind the soft coils through his fingers. It was better with Caralyn, as most things were. He hesitated though. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t?” 

There must have been something uncertain or pained in his voice because she turned her head to frown at him, a gentler expression than the one she’d worn before. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

He felt himself flushing and that wouldn’t make anything better. He shrugged and shook his head, trying to pull her back around so that he could work his fingers into her hair again. 

Caralyn’s hands batted his away before settling to either side of his face, cupping around the line of his jaw. “Alistair.” 

He lowered his head to kiss her upturned forehead, and took comfort in the fact that she didn’t flinch or shift, in fact sliding her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. He closed his arms around her waist and hauled her up against him, burying his face in her hair. “I feel like you are hiding something from me, and I’m scared that this is over already,” he whispered, unsure if it was loud enough for her to hear him at all. 

She stiffened in his arms and her grip on his neck grew almost strangling tight. “You are the biggest fucking idiot.” 

That seemed to be one of her favorite ways to express affection, though she was more likely to use it on Anders than him. He squeezed her closer, nearly pulling her off her tiptoes. “Which is someone you’d definitely want around all the time, tripping over footstools and banging his elbows into doorjambs.” 

She let go enough that she could look up at him, eyes glittering with tears. “Do you want to fucking go, then?” 

“No!” He had to swallow to get any additional words out, clear his throat of the thickness that the thought of walking away caused him. “Of course not.” 

“So explain to me what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

“You and Anders, all the whisper-fighting and slammed doors and you’re definitely hiding something from me, so I thought maybe he’d decided, or you’d decided, that this… all of this --” He nodded toward the bed. “--wasn’t working after all.” He let her settle back onto her feet, hands sliding to span the dip of her waist. 

Caralyn let out a low groan and thumped her forehead against his chest. “He said I should tell you.” 

“He’s smarter than he looks.” He kissed the top of her head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. 

“So are you.” 

Alistair nuzzled into her hair, burying himself in the scent of her. “Well, some would say that isn’t hard when you look as dumb as a nug.” 

She snorted at that, shaking her head, and looking up at him with a calculating squint. “True, but since you don’t look any dumber than a mabari, you’re doing okay.” 

“Thank you?” He smirked, chest rising in a short chuckle at the mostly-compliment. “So, are you going to tell me what it is now and why you were shouting at Anders when I got… back.” He still stumbled every time his tongue tried to use the word _home_ , still not sure if he trusted this fragile, wonderful thing enough to bear up under the weight of what that meant. He dipped his head to kiss her, eyebrows arched hopefully. 

She kissed him back, though her eyes narrowed as he drew away. “You and the fucking puppy eyes.” 

Alistair couldn’t help but grin at the accusation in her tone. “You were the one who just this very moment told me I reminded you of an exceptionally smart mabari.” 

He kissed her again when she rolled her eyes at him, this time with a little more insistence, tasting her full lips, upper and lower, tongue slicking into her mouth as she parted them. She responded with sudden ardor, sucking on his tongue, tangling hers against it, a hand gripping into his hair almost painfully tight.

She gripped his wrist with her other hand, drawing it around to the curve of her backside, under the split short skirting of her armor, over the leggings and he gripped where she placed it, dragging her against him again. She gasped at the flex of his hand, the strong jerk of his arm, and he took control of the kiss, his other hand rising to tangle into her hair and tip her head back. 

She loved this, rose to it every time, let him want and take, yielding up what he asked for. It fascinated him, the difference with the way she fussed and bucked and prodded with Anders, because this was pure melting sweetness that he could sink into and lose himself in again and again. The hand in her hair moved to her neck, thumb along her jaw and over her pulse, and suddenly he could feel the way it jumped and raced and that was not because of him. She was frightened. 

And she was distracting him _again_. He grunted, breaking the kiss, and frowned down at her. “Caralyn, why are you afraid?” 

Her lips were parted as she looked up at him, blue eyes wide, and then shifting away. He eased his grip on her so that she could straighten, but she didn’t go far, hands resting on his arms. “I got a letter.” 

“Hm, yes well letters can be terrifying. I’ve written some fearfully bad ones myself.” And some incredibly important ones. He would always sort of cherish the way Elissa’s nostrils had flared when she’d read the scratch copy of the missives he’d sent from Ansburg. As much as he could cherish any memory about that woman’s nostrils. 

“This one is from the Queen of Ferelden, delivered to Seneschal Bran, by the hand of Bann Teagan Guerrin, who is waiting to meet with me this afternoon.” She pressed her forehead against his chest. “At the Keep. That has slowly been filling up with Templars since Dumar’s death.” 

The ringing that started in Alistair’s ears only got louder as she talked, and he had to release her because the desire to hold her so tightly he could crush her was suddenly very strong. She was making guilty eyes at him again, hand rising to fist in her hair in frustration, working new tangles into it. 

“So, this letter, it was addressed to _you_?” 

Caralyn jerked her hand out of her hair, eyes narrow and furious, both her hands fisted at her side now. “I didn’t open your fucking mail. The Ferelden ambassador wants to talk to the fucking Champion of Kirkwall, Bran says, and so I’m going to talk to the Ferelden fucking ambassador.” By the end of that sentence she was shouting. “Who, by the way, I’m still thinking feeding to pigs might be a grand fucking plan!” 

“And the letter didn’t mention me at all?” Alistair’s ears were still ringing, his skin felt hot. This was not happening again. He had tried to make sure this would never happen again. 

That closed her expression, turning it mulish and guilty once more. 

“Ah. I’m supposed to come too.” 

“You’re not going anywhere near that man until I know what this is about, Alistair.” Her voice was low and fierce. 

“And you going, that just makes sense?” Anders voice drew Alistair’s attention to the doorway, where the other mage was standing with his arms folded, watching her with disapproval. 

“I can’t not fucking go! It’s a summons from the seat of the provisional Viscount at the monarch of Ferelden’s request. All this shit--” She cast her hands around in a wild sweep. “That lets me keep you safe, and me safe in this cocked up town, it means I have to answer. If Meredith can’t fuck with the Champion I have to actually be the fucking Champion.” 

She was spiraling up, fiercer, angrier, little sparks appearing in her hair. Alistair stepped closer to her, running a hand down the length of it, discharging them in a crackle that sent tingles along his skin that weren’t unpleasant. Especially since he associated them with certain other things that didn’t usually involve being so angry, but were often far more naked. 

Caralyn gave a guilty start at the sound and they disappeared all at once, the hairs on his arm prickling back down flat, as she forced her magic and her temper to retreat. She focused on the floor in front of Anders, face a pale, fierce mask. Pushing her was only going to make this worse. He stroked her hair again, looking up to meet Anders eyes with a little frown and arched brows. 

The disapproving expression pulling lines around Anders mouth faded at Alistair’s look and he sighed, shaking his head slowly. “Cara, this is dangerous and you can’t go up there alone. You just can’t.” 

“Well, neither of you are going. Aveline will be in her office. I’ll get Varric to hold my hand if it makes you feel any fucking better.” Alistair was gratified that when he gently brushed hair behind her ear she leaned into the touch, her tone less strident now. “But if they try to take either of you from me--” 

“You’ll burn the fucking city down?” Anders lips quirked fondly and he stepped further into the room. The coil of tension in Alistair’s chest loosened a bit more with each step he took closing the gap between them. 

Caralyn snorted and shook her head. “You’re such an ass.” 

“Hm. Seeing as you just saved the city from burning down, maybe drowning Teagan in blood would be a better option?” Anders’ smile was stronger now and he took a seat at the foot of the bed, close enough to reach out and take her hand, squeezing it with a gentle press of long fingers. 

“I’ll drown you in blood, you idiot.” 

Alistair dropped a kiss to the top of her head and then put a hand on the small of her back, propelling her toward Anders with a firm press that made her dig in her heels for a moment. He just pushed harder and she toppled toward him with a squawk as Anders’ lanky arms caught her and pulled her into his lap.

He watched Anders nuzzle into her hair, and the way her eyes dipped closed, and he felt a strangling want to go wrap them both up in his arms. The fear hadn’t left him, it was just in a different spot. He didn’t think they were pushing him out anymore, but that didn’t make the worry that he was about to lose this any less. “So, this letter that’s about me? The one that had you both in such a twist? That’s about _me_?” He didn’t try to hide the irritation he had decided he definitely felt. “I’d like to see that letter now, thank you.” It was almost a growl. More than irritated then. 

“It’s in her pouch there.” Anders gestured to the wide belt that she hadn’t buckled on yet that held her magey things. Potions, herbs, small trinkets. It wasn’t as likely to explode from his fiddling as a rogue’s so he unclasped the pouch and pulled out the folded parchment square. 

Caralyn watched him with a fierce light in her blue eyes. “There’s nothing in it. Just Champion is summoned blah fucking blah. Bring that Warden Alistair guy too.” 

Alistair didn’t believe that. Ferelden might not be a hotbed of political intrigue, but the nobility just did things certain ways, and writing a letter that said exactly what it meant was not one of those ways. He opened the letter, letting his eyes scan it. 

It was mostly as Caralyn had described it, a formal request for an audience with Caralyn Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and the Grey Warden Alistair by the Fereldan ambassador on behalf of the crown. When Teagan had attempted to get him to return to Denerim before everything had gone south and sideways with Topher and Elissa, the language had been flowery. This was extremely straight-forward, almost to the point of sounding rude. 

“This isn’t a very polite way of asking you tea.” He peered over at her. “I’m think I’m offended on your behalf.” 

Anders snorted softly but was still frowning at letter in Alistair’s hand. “It could mean anything, from ‘here, let us congratulate you’ to ‘you’re being arrested now’.” He rested his forehead on the top of her shoulder. “It isn’t safe for you to go alone, Cara.” 

“Bran isn’t going to let the Champion be arrested after two months. There’s still too much cleanup. He needs me to go to parties and ask for donations and then murder blood mages and bandits that are taking advantage of the chaos.” Caralyn shrugged Anders off and pushed out of his lap to stalk toward Alistair and snatch the letter from his hand. “I have read hundreds of pissy noble fuckwit letters in the last few weeks, most of them with too much ink on the page to use to wipe your fucking ass because of all the double talk. This one doesn’t do that. There isn’t even enough in here to fucking worry about.” 

“If there’s nothing to worry about then why won’t you let us - let _me_ \- come with you, Caralyn?” Alistair folded his arms, trying to frown at her, but she was so much better at it than he was it felt foolish to even attempt it. 

“Because if I have to fucking kill that son of a bitch who brought Topher to Kirkwall and set all that _horror_ into motion to keep him away from you, I don’t want you to see it.” That… sounded absolutely like the truth. It was terrifying, like her voice was made of cold steel. “I don’t give a shit that he was working for Anora or Elissa cocking Cousland or whoever the fuck. I’m not taking any chances with this.” 

“No, no chances at all, except with yourself.” Alistair shook his head, the bitterness in his voice a heavy flavor in his mouth. “You’re not going to kill Teagan, Caralyn, because that could start a war and I’m not--” 

“I swear to fucking Andraste if you say you’re not worth that I’m going to feed _you_ to pigs.” 

“I’m not comfortable with you starting a war on my behalf. Am I worth that? Would that be acceptable?” He raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “No, no it isn’t. And neither is you deciding what happens to me without asking _me_ , any more than it was okay when Elissa tried to do the same.” It wasn’t until the words were out that he realized he was _furious_ about that. That specifically. His knuckles were creaking in his balled fists. 

Caralyn flinched back, eyes wide and lips parting at the accusation, and as much as it twisted in his chest to see her look at him with hurt in her eyes, the sudden uncertainty that she usually masked with a scowl, he had to say it. He hadn’t given himself up to the Wardens and then defied Elissa, finally, to her face, to let Caralyn coddle him like this. He wasn’t in Kirkwall to hide from his responsibilities, his past. He was here because he wanted to be with her, with Anders and he could fight for them just as hard as they fought for him. 

But not if they treated him like a child, or a particularly stupid mabari.

His hands were shaking when he turned away, avoiding meeting Anders’ alarmed eyes as he stood from the bed. “Alistair, love--” 

That was the first time Anders had ever called him that, and it made his shoulders curve slightly, the weight of walking away from it, but Alistair did, storming from the room at a quick clip. 

There was no reason for her to mistrust him in this, no reason that she shouldn’t ask for his input. He knew she wasn’t Elissa, that there wasn’t a single selfish bone that Caralyn seemed to possess, but he wasn’t going to hide behind her. 

He stopped in the foyer to buckle his sword belt on, finding the weight comforting and in keeping with the gnawing worry, the welling bitterness in the pit of his stomach. 

He was at the bottom of the Viscount Keep’s stairs when he remembered the gifts he’d left in Caralyn’s room, and he drew up short to wonder if this all went as poorly as it was like to if they’d open them and wonder what in the blazes he’d been thinking. It made him laugh past the rain trickling into his eyes, over his lips, a breathless, pained sound. 

The climb to the keep settled him, eyes ahead as he strode past the guards that flanked the door on one side, who seemed to be busier eyeing the Templars on the other side of the great entryway than him. He shook off the rain as best he could, ignoring the long-nosed glares of nobles who clustered and gossiped. As he strode toward one of the pages or clerks or lackeys that looked like they knew where things were, a younger noble stepped back with a pallor on his pasty face, practically scampering out of Alistair’s way. 

He heard murmurs from the group around him, Caralyn’s name, her title, a strange echoing whisper that trailed after him. In their eyes he was hers, and that should make him angry, given what he’d just said to her. Maybe? Instead he prickled with something like pride, with protectiveness. He gave a sharp shake of his head and stopped in front of the soft young woman who was holding a sheaf of papers nearly as tall as he was and looking harried. 

“Um, yes, hello, I’m looking for the Seneschal? Or provisional Viscount, I suppose? Bran, I’m looking for a man named Bran who is expecting me for an appointment with the Fereldan ambassador.” The girl’s eyes widened a little as he fumbled and he could feel his ears heating. Maker’s ass, he had to do better. “Can you tell me where to find him, please? The Champion and I have a meeting shortly.” 

At the mention of the Champion the girl’s eyes went round as saucers and she nodded, pointing up the stairs with her chin. “Oh, yes, of course. He’s in his office, up there, to the left, his secretary will sign you in, and... “ She craned her neck looking behind him, voice dropping to a whisper, “The Champion isn’t here yet, is she?” 

“No? Is that--” He broke off at the young clerk’s relieved sigh. 

“My mother will kill me if I don’t have a written description of exactly what she was wearing and I have to get rid of all this.” She hefted her armload of documents, eyes gleaming with excitement. “So I can take notes.” Her smile was worshipful as she flicked her gaze back up to Alistair. “Thank you so much for warning me!” And then she was gone and Alistair was _laughing_ at the face Caralyn would make when she heard that what she wore to political meetings was talked about in Hightown. 

Suddenly he felt less angry and terribly lonely that he was here without her at his side. 

He scrubbed a hand through his hair again and took the stairs slowly. There wasn’t much for it now, except to prove that he wasn’t an idiot, or an infant, and that he didn’t need to be defended like a high dragon brooding her clutch. 

Maybe this would finally test the usefulness of those letters sent under Elissa’s nose, and then that blasted woman, and his brother’s widow, and his dead father would finally stop haunting him and he could at last be _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't expect this chapter _at all_. But here we are. Don't worry, we're not starting another big politics arc. Just tying up some loose ends. 
> 
> Thank you all, my doves. I loved your feedback on the Smuttening and am looking forward to writing more of _that_ sort of thing very soon. :)


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain words are said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three months since the last update! To all my readers new and old, you guys are amazing and thank you for sticking with me through this ridiculous word drought. 
> 
> You are individually and collectively the absolute best.

The sun was in her eyes, or Hawke wouldn’t have gotten caught. All the wet, white marble of Hightown flashing as the clouds parted and the rain ceased, the rising wind tugging at her clothes and blowing the shorter locks of hair at the front of her head, that Alistair never braided tight enough to stay, into her eyes. 

“But Champion, surely you have a moment to spare, yes?” The young woman, Hawke was pretty sure her name was Tiffelde of Lallancia or something else useless and frothy, took a step to block Hawke’s path _again._ Which was pretty fucking bold considering she was wearing her murder face. 

“No, I really don’t. So please, just--” Hawke looked down at her arm as the other woman slid her hand into the crook of Hawke’s elbow and then craned her neck to make sure that other people in the Hightown square had noticed. “--fuck off?” Her voice fell into a small, weak query instead of the snarl she had started with. What in the void was going on? 

The trip to the Keep had been delayed by another argument between her and Anders. She was late for the meeting with Teagan, and she had no fucking clue if Alistair had gone ahead or _left._

Which was part of what the argument had been about: whether Alistair would have approached Teagan on his own, whether his leaving the estate was _leaving_ , and what Hawke was supposed to do about it. 

Anders was of the opinion that there was no way Alistair would leave them like that, not after everything, and that if anything he was at the Keep right now definitely not being kidnapped, so she could stop hyperventilating. 

Hawke thought being compared to Elissa fucking Cousland and her manipulative mind games was pretty fucking clear, and if he was leaving wouldn’t chasing him just confirm whatever it was that he thought of her? But she didn’t want him to go. 

When Anders finally convinced her that they needed to go meet with Teagan and at least figure out what he wanted, she’d been exhausted, tear-stained and nauseous, but she’d finally agreed to let him come, too tired to protest any more. 

So they’d gone together and then the rain had let up. The air still held the cool, damp, _clean_ smell this far up in the city, before it could grow warm and muggy and the stench would rise. 

Normally she’d be throwing a fucking party about a walk across Hightown that wasn’t a damp slog, or wading through the miasmic smell of shit and sweat, except it meant that every asshole in silk who hadn’t been _seen_ in a week was wandering around looking like peacocks with whole fucking rosebushes growing out of their asses, and being in her way. 

Recognizing her. 

Wanting a word. 

She’d chased off three separate requests that she _do something_ about this shitbird or that fuckwit, and she still wasn’t sure if she was being asked to assassinate annoying neighbors free of charge or not. 

And apparently, the boldest of the younger set, some unmarried heiress or other, had decided a walk on the Champion’s arm was just what her image needed. 

She heard Anders snort and stifle a laugh on her other side. That fucking ass. 

“I promise, I will not impede you, Champion. I’ll walk with you. To the Viscount’s Keep, yes?” She was a strong little shit, Hawke would give her that, steering her the long way around the fountain to the stairs that would lead to the Keep, grip tight on Hawke’s arm even though her temper had her magic an uncomfortable buzz just under her skin that she was certain the woman could feel. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“ _Moi_? Oh, I am Emallea de Tisdane. I was at the reception the other night, and so wanted a word but you were indisposed, yes?” 

Hawke’s neck twinged from how fast she whipped her head around to glare at Anders where he was choking on his snicker. “Yeah, that night wasn’t a great--” 

“I’m sure you were still recovering from your injuries.” The young woman was slightly taller than Hawke, and when she looked over at her, with her big brown eyes Hawke realized that they were more or less of an age. Her mouth, carefully painted a delicate rose, curved in a sweet, compassionate smile, even though her eyes sparkled with mirth. “But you seem quite hale now, Champion.” 

Emallea’s eyes dipped in a way that was somehow both subtle and felt a bit like being groped in public, making whatever Hawke had been trying to say as they came to a stop at the foot of the Keep steps get all tangled in her mouth, a blush rising in her cheeks. It only got worse when Emallea turned toward her and clasped Hawke’s hand tightly in both of hers. 

“I’m sure Kirkwall is relieved at your recovery,” Emallea said softly, “and I would like to add my personal well-wishes. May I call some time for tea, perhaps?” 

“What?” Hawke, dressed in the robes that fair shouted, _dangerous apostate who kills for fun and profit_ on her way to possibly start a war with Ferelden over the bastard of the king who had ruled a decade and two monarchs ago, was being propositioned by a pretty girl of good breeding on a public street?

“We’d be delighted!” Anders stepped up close to Hawke’s back, a hand on her waist, and catching the elbow she tried to throw at his stomach with his other one. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, the Seneschal is probably having a litter of puppies wondering where _the Champion_ has got to.” 

Emallea gave Anders a surprisingly gracious smile, inclining her head, and then for a brief, horrifying moment Hawke thought she was going to kiss the back of her captive hand. Instead she sort of… curtseyed over it, and then let it go. “Until then, Champion.” 

Hawke watched her go with round eyes, mouth screwed up in a sour grimace, before turning to Anders and poking him in the chest. “I fucking hate you. What in the bloody void was that? Who was that? What the fuck is going on?” 

The feathered shoulders of his idiot coat rose and fell in an affable shrug, and honestly he looked like he was having the most fun he’d maybe ever had, with his eyes sparkling all warm in the sudden autumn sun. “Whatever it is, it’s _delightful_.” 

The whole encounter had Hawke so confused that she turned to stare at the back of Emallea’s head as she sashayed across the square, rejoining a group that were plainly waiting for her, staring with mixed admiration and horror on their faces. “Something horrible is happening.” 

“It’s Kirkwall, sweetheart. What did you expect?” Anders sighed and nudged her toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s leave the mysteries of the upper crust to another day.” 

The steps were still a bit of a chore, even after having Anders back home had provided increased healing of her complete impalement scar. At the landing midway she paused and turned to Anders, “You invited her over for tea!” 

“What?” Anders blinked down at her from the next step up. “Oh her? Well, technically I think she invited herself over for tea. I just encouraged it.” He smiled brightly. 

Hawke rubbed her forehead. 

Headache number six: it wasn’t Anders specific, and mostly cropped up when she was having to think too hard about the future, but it also never seemed to go entirely away when he was being mercurial and annoying. “I’m going to pay Alistair to spank you later,” she muttered. 

His smile turned sly and he shrugged one shoulder, beckoning her up to join him. “Oh so you’ve decided he hasn’t left us after all? Well, we’d better go settle this thing with Teagan, and see where he’s gone to then, hmm?” 

The rest of the walk into the keep was silent, Hawke next to Anders, each step tightening the line of her spine and the set of her jaw. By the time they reached the reception hall of the Keep itself, with its idle pockets of bootlickers waiting for audiences with important people, clerks running piles of documents here and there, and the new addition, the Templars that stood guard just inside the door, she must have been the very picture of tightly leashed violence. No one looked directly at her but the room fluttered with furtive glances and quickened steps as she climbed the stairs toward Bran’s office. 

“You’re late, and the ambassador is down the hall in the solar.” Bran’s chronically constipated tone came from behind Hawke without warning. “He’s been in there with the warden for nearly half an hour.” 

“The warden? What fucking warden?” Hawke spun to face Bran so quickly he almost ran into her.

“Warden Alistair?” Bran looked at her like she was more than a little mad, and gestured impatiently toward the door on the north end of the hall. 

Of course, Warden Alistair. Maker’s cock. She rubbed her forehead again and started back toward the door. She wasn’t charging. She didn’t run. But some of the brief panic that Teagan had brought Elissa Cousland back with him was still coiled around her throat. Whatever was going on in that room couldn’t be good, Alistair here, that idiot, with no backup and for fuck’s sake, what was he thinking? 

That he didn’t need Hawke acting exactly like this, probably. She grit her teeth as she threw open the doors.

The solar was north facing, and currently flooded with the golden autumn light that had broken through the clouds when the rain stopped. All the strong, geometric lines of the heavy carved wood was softened by the light limning whorls and waves in the grain of the beams and exposed rafters.

Hawke had to blink against the bright light to see Alistair, leaning over a large piece of parchment spread on the table and weighted where it wanted to roll. It was huge, really, thick vellum, and there were ribbons and seals on it all over. He had a quill in his hand as he startled and looked up. The light drew all the gold out in both his eyes and his hair, and for a moment she thought of the one time she’d seen his brother the king when his armies passed by Lothering on the way to Ostagar and Carver had left with them. 

Hawke felt like vomiting. 

His surprise was quickly eclipsed by a raw-edged determination in the twitching muscles of his jaw as he met her gaze. Two breaths, maybe three, he looked at her, like he was physically incapable of looking away, until Teagan touched his arm. 

“Please, Alistair, just finish reading it so we can get this over with.” The bann sounded tired, exasperated, and his eyes kept flinching toward her like he was preparing for a blow that maybe he deserved? What was Alistair reading?

“What the fuck is that?” Hawke’s hands balled fists at her sides, too afraid to point because she might shoot lightning at the table as Teagan shifted his weight back, arms folded and looking suddenly like he’d been fed a slice of lemon dipped in nugshit. “The letter said the meeting was about me.” 

“The letter requested an audience with you and Alistair.” Teagan’s voice didn’t sound like the words were any tastier than her sudden appearance had been. “I thought it more likely you’d actually appear if you were both invited. Although perhaps if I had only summoned him, it would have worked to get you here together and on time?” He frowned at her, and Hawke had to fight the urge to stick her tongue out at him. 

“You didn’t answer my question. What is that?” Hawke stepped forward, and she heard the sharp inhale that Teagan took as she let the sparks skittering just under her skin bloom in her hands, lacing her gloves with violet light. Her eyes moved back to Alistair, found him looking at her with a puzzled quirk to his eyebrows and a soft, fond twist to his lips. 

“Oh, are you asking me?” Alistair folded his arms and leaned a hip against the edge of the massive table, eyebrow climbing higher. “A question for me about something that involves _me_? It’s never happened before so I wasn’t sure.” 

The sound of Anders’ voice gave Hawke a guilty twinge. She’d nearly forgotten he was there. “See, Cara, not dead or stuffed in a barrel already bound for Denerim.” 

Alistair’s impudent expression faltered slightly, eyes flicking to Anders just behind her and then back to her face, softening. “No. Ah. Still here.” He glanced down at the table, then back up at Hawke. “For a while yet, I hope?” 

“A while?” Hawke had no idea what that meant. A few days? Years? What was he signing? A marriage contract to Anora? Some kind of treaty with the Wardens? A declaration of his claim to the throne and the start of another civil war? She took a faltering step forward, not sure if her face was more pleading or scowling, as she stared up at him. He simply looked confused. 

“As fascinating as it is to see you… work… Champion,” Teagan said with an exaggerated frown in her direction, “I don’t want to waste your time.” He turned away to the desk behind him and then returned with a folded leather scrip, this one also featuring seals and ribbons. “I have been granted the privilege of congratulating you on your elevation to Kirkwall’s Champion on behalf of Queen Anora, as a proud daughter of Ferelden.” 

It was obviously anything but a privilege as he strode toward her, and tossed the document case onto the table closest to where she stood, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to get within arm’s reach. And honestly, she didn’t fucking blame him. “In there, you’ll find a letter of apology from the throne regarding Elissa Cousland’s actions this past summer, a large sum in restitution for the injury you incurred, drawn against Highever’s coffers, and the recognition of your achievements in saving Kirkwall, our honored ally, from the Qunari horde.” 

“What?”

Teagan sighed heavily and began speaking at a slightly higher volume, and more slowly, as if she was old, or deaf, or unable to follow his words. The words were fine. She didn’t understand what the fuck was happening. “I have been granted the privilege--” 

“Shut the fuck up. What is going on? Am I being bought off? Do you think I’m going to let you just have Alistair, like you won, over money? I’ve got money. I’m shitting cash. Let me get Varric up here and he can explain how much actual money I have.” She stalked around the table toward Teagan, feeling real, visceral pleasure tightening in her belly as he retreated, eyebrows raising and looking like he was about to piss his fancy velvet breeches. “You don’t get him.” She faltered, eyes skipping to the scroll and then Alistair, “Unless. Is that what you… what you want?” 

“No? Why would you think I… what?” Alistair looked completely flummoxed for a moment, his mouth opening and then snapping closed again when Anders strode around the table, fast enough to send the tails of his coat flapping behind him. 

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, the two of you! Ask sensible questions! Answer in complete sentences! It isn’t that bloody hard.” Anders pulled the parchment Alistair had been studying around so he could read it. “And yes, alright, I am aware of the irony, and yes, I see the incredulous staring, Cara. Maker’s ass!” 

“Please don’t touch that before it’s been signed, witnessed, and sealed.” Bran. Hawke had completely forgotten about the Seneschal, and as he breezed past her to where Anders stood he shot her a quelling look. “Champion, you are the witness requested. If you would.” 

This was all getting to be too much. She was so fucking out of her depth. Politics, no one explaining what was going on, payoffs and apologies that admitted no fault. This wasn’t what she did. 

Hawke made things die and then complained while washing entrails out of her fucking hair. 

This was everything her mother had wanted for her, and every fucking thing she had refused to engage with, and all of a sudden all that shit she’d said about needing this position, this power, to keep what amounted to her family safe, seemed like it was strangling her. She couldn’t do this.

She could kill every man in this room without breaking a sweat, probably, but she couldn’t do _this_.

She didn’t know how. 

“Caralyn, it’s going to be okay.” Alistair’s hands closing over her shoulders sent a shock through her, through them both maybe, and her eyes snapped into focus on his chest and then up at his face. She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard him close that distance. 

“What?” She was tired of that word, the struggling confusion that it signified. 

His hand, broad and warm lifted to cup her cheek. “It’s really not that scary. Just a piece of parchment. A pen. A little bit of hot wax. Not even any dismemberment.” He gave her a worried smile, thumb brushing her cheek. “Trust me?” 

“If you’re leaving don’t--” 

“I’m not leaving!” He sounded appalled and exasperated and apologetic at the same time. “I am however going to have to spend at least three days getting my foot out of my mouth. Or Anders’ boot out of my ass.” 

Anders snorted and Hawke was certain that noise contained something dirty and inappropriate enough that it would make Alistair’s ears pink if he said it out loud, but apparently he was still pretending to be the adult and managed not to say it. 

Alistair’s ears still turned pink.

“Trust me,” he repeated, low and earnest in a voice that made promises and asked for them in the same breath, that had the hair on the back of her neck lifting while her mouth went dry. 

It wasn’t the voice of someone who was leaving, _not ever_ and before she could stop it her mouth had opened and she whispered, “I love you.”

“Alistair!” Teagan’s voice interrupted whatever response he was going to make, irritation tearing through the space between them. “Here I thought you’d grown something like an attention span since you were a boy. Please, just let’s get this over with so we can all go home.” 

Alistair flinched and she expected him to turn away, to finish whatever it was they were doing here so that there wasn’t a scene, to apologize or ignore her words until they weren’t so fucking inconvenient. Because of course Hawke would blurt out that she _loved_ the man she’d fucked twice before she even knew his name in a meeting with the Ferelden ambassador and the Seneschal and Provisional Viscount of Kirkwall, where she was apparently supposed to witness the signing of some important legal document that could be anything from a contract for his first born child to the deed to a fucking mabari farm. 

She felt the humiliation burning in her cheeks and he shook his head, looking down at her. “Bloody… give me just one second. Please.” 

She blinked, tears stinging in her eyes and looked away toward the windows. Fucking brilliant as always. 

Alistair’s hand slipped away from her face as he turned and his voice was much larger than normal as he said, “Out. Both of you. Out now.” 

Hawke could see Bran’s nonplussed expression from the corner of her eyes, but he gave a long-suffering sigh and began gathering his things without argument. 

Teagan on the other hand swelled up to bluster. “Honestly, Alistair, a little decorum.” 

“No. No, you don’t get to do to that. I’ve abdicated. See? I penned the draft, remember? I’m about to sign that calligraphied monstrosity. Right. There.” He was stalking toward Teagan, and he looked so much bigger than normal, like he did when he was fighting. Was he fighting? For what? “I may be a bastard, orphan, exiled, deserting, cast-off, but I’m done being the mud-covered boy who doesn’t get to say what happens next. Get out, or I’ll throw you out. I might even throw you out the window if you make me any angrier.” 

“I’ll open one.” Anders, and the meddling, mischief loving core of his heart, was already walking toward the windows, some of which swung out with almost enough clearance to fit a grown man through. “Defenestration! Almost as much fun as iconoclasm.” 

“There are forms. Procedures. You can’t just--” Teagan’s teeth clicked shut as Alistair’s hand fell on his shoulder, too hard to be a friendly grip. 

“Well I am. I really, really am. Do you want to hear about what being a Free Marches sellsword has taught me? Do you want me to explain how I killed one of the most powerful mercenary captains in Kirkwall because he threatened her?” Alistair’s voice climbed in comical fake surprise, as Teagan, turning so red he was purple, began striding toward the door. “Oh you don’t? You’re going? Oh why, do you have to? I suppose maybe you left the candles lit by your curtains… okay, well it was lovely to see you, _Uncle_.” 

Teagan made it out of the room first, but Bran turned to Alistair and said sedately, “A quarter hour will do?” He nodded without anyone agreeing and then exited, the door shutting hard behind him. 

Alistair walked back toward her, she could see him in the corner of her vision but she couldn’t turn her head to look at him, too hot and too cold by turns, eyes stinging. 

“Caralyn.” 

She blinked, flicked her eyes toward him, looked back at the floor. 

“Caralyn?” 

“You abdicated?” 

“Yes. Didn’t I explain that before? We-ell, I mean, yes and then again? I don’t understand how it all works exactly.” His hands settled on her shoulders, the faintest brushes of his palms that slid down to her upper arms. “I had to make declarations at the Landsmeet years ago so Anora wouldn’t chop my head off when Elissa exiled me. But someone got it in their head it wasn’t binding.” He gathered her closer, fingers curling to draw her in an inch at a time. “I’m not even sure if you can abdicate if you’re not actually ruling. But it is now. Binding, I mean. Maker, I hope so.” 

“That’s what this was all about? They wanted you to be king.” 

“Apparently. Either married to Anora...or not? I really didn’t listen very hard.” 

“You didn’t want to be king?” 

“No? Why would I want to do that when I could be here doing this.” His hands slid over her shoulder blades, one settling in the middle of her back, and the other drifting lower to just above the curve of her ass. 

“So that wasn’t a deed to a mabari farm?” There was a hysterical tremor in her voice, and a tear slipped down her cheek. 

He snorted and laughed and suddenly crushed her against his chest, face pressed into her hair. “Sweet Andraste, Caralyn, no, I’m not the surprise owner of a secret mabari farm. I’m nobody. Not an exiled prince. Not a templar. Not even really a warden anymore. Just me.” He kissed the crown of her head, and then curled further down so that his mouth was warm against the top of her ear. “And as me, I can say, I love you. Maker’s breath, how I love you. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to get to say at this rate, if you weren’t going to say it first, but you did, and now I have, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. I love you.” 

She felt something that had coiled tight and cold inside her loosen and she was able to raise her head. He drew back enough that she could lift her face toward his. He laughed softly when he saw the scowl she hadn’t quite shaken free of. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, grinning, cheeky and light and she found her face breaking into a smile as she rolled her eyes. “You are. You are! Even when you look like you’re about to bite me. My love. Caralyn.” 

She snorted and let her forehead thump into his chest. “Okay, I regret it now. You have to stop.” Her shoulders quaked with gentle laughter that felt so foreign in her throat. “Or I will bite you.” 

She sucked in a sharp breath as he nudged her head to the side, hand coiling in her braid to hold her still and bit her on the curve of her neck just above the collar of her robes. Every nerve in her body suddenly sparked, and her magic answered, a sharp crackle of it shedding in harmless sparks onto the carpet. She wasn’t sure what noise she made, but it wasn’t one she ever thought she’d be making in this room. He pressed a kiss over the bite, and then nuzzled it while his arms closed around her again, hugging her until there wasn’t breath in her lungs. 

“Well I’m glad we had to fight for three days straight and walk all the way up here and suffer through at least four separate misunderstandings to get you both to say it. Well done!” Anders clapped his hands as he moved toward them. “Now, can we please finish signing the decree or writ or whatever and get out of here?” He had nearly moved past when one of Alistair’s hands reached out and grabbed him by front of his shirt and tugged him up against Hawke’s back. 

Anders rested a hand on her waist as he steadied himself, leaning hard into her as Alistair pulled him into a deep, demanding kiss. It went on long enough that she was worried one of them was going to faint on her, but the heat of it seemed to go straight through the three of them, their bodies in contact against hers, every shift and grind between them making her breath catch in her throat. 

Hawke loved it when they did this, kissed each other like she wasn’t there, while every other part of their bodies were as wrapped in hers as their mouths were each other. It would have been fucking fantastic if they weren’t currently in the Viscount’s keep waiting for Teagan and Bran to decide they’d been given enough privacy and come busting back in. 

“This is really fucking inappropriate,” she breathed as Alistair’s hand on her hip slid over her ass. 

Anders groaned softly and drew back, tugging his coat straight to hide the erection he’d been pressing against her eagerly until she spoke. 

Alistair was slower to put any space between them, looking down at her, breathing hard through his mouth. “Because we’ve never done that before. Been really inappropriate. Not the two of us. Seems unfair to poor Anders he’s only seen us _appropriate_.”

Caralyn reached up to push Alistair’s face away as he bent to kiss her, snorting. “Fine, you want to fuck me in an alley, the both of you, we can do _that_. Or we can go home, where the bed is. But not here. Not…” 

“If we’re voting, I prefer the bed, thank you.” Anders voice was dry, but he stuck close, running a hand down her braid gently. 

She gave a little shiver, looking away. This place, the Keep, it wasn’t her place. As hard as Kirkwall seemed to want to drive her toward it. Alistair’s arms stayed warm around her. “Love?” he asked gently. 

She sighed, a hard exhale and shrugged away from him, pulling her clothes straight. “So, are you done being angry at me because of how much I’m like Elissa?” Her jaw was tight, and she didn’t want to explain, she wanted to finish and to leave and never come back here, even if that was never going to be an option for the Champion. She didn’t want it to touch them, not this way, not where people would judge her, judge the two of them. 

So of course Hawke looked to start another fight. 

She was just lucky that he wouldn’t give it to her. Instead Alistair smiled, big and bright and shrugged. “What’s to be angry about? I won. I get to choose.” He caught her hands and kissed them, one, then the other. “And I choose you.” He looked up at Anders, smile a little more shy than she’d expected after the kiss he’d claimed earlier. “Both of you.” 

“Go let them back in.” She nodded toward the door, smile a slow growing thing, heat in her cheeks, and ready to be done with this. “I’ll witness whatever fucking thing they want so long as it means I get to keep you.” 

She did. She could feel it in her skin of her hands and the floor of her mouth, under her tongue and in the shiver that slipped down her spine from the base of her skull to her ass, when he gave her _that_ look, the one that was wonder and gratitude and hope. 

Hawke hoped too. Hoped that unlike the rest of her cocked up life, that this… was it a promise? A wish? Whatever the fuck it was, wish or promise or fever dream, she just wanted it to last.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caralyn, Alistair, and Anders all manage to be less disastrous than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot of smut, more smut, and some feelings. I've added some tags for anal sex and double penetration, just an FYI.

Hawke could tell Anders was having a hard time focusing. The way his mouth would stutter and pause where he was trying to lick her out, tongue pressed deep inside, that was all up to Alistair’s doing. It was wonderful. And fucking frustrating. She opened her eyes and lifted her head as Anders whimpered, turning his face against her thigh, to see Alistair leaning hard into his upraised ass, sweat on his face, slicking down the hair on his chest, panting heavily. 

One of his big hands was gently rubbing the small of Anders’ back, slow circles as he held so still, the other one gripping white-knuckle tight at his hip. It had taken him a while to work in, a bunch of oil and fingers and what all Anders had used to loosen himself, Hawke couldn’t remember half of. She’d been too busy rocking in Alistair’s lap, her back pulled hard against his chest, both of them watching Anders watching them, and it had just been… 

Decadent. Degenerate. There was nothing tidy or sweet, or fucking _nice_ about any of it. Which was also wonderful, even if Anders couldn’t keep straight exactly what he was supposed to be doing to her with his mouth. She gasped and arched as he pushed his face back against her cunt, breath hot and panting against her slick-wet skin. Or maybe he just needed some time to adjust? 

Because he started to move, rolling his spine in this way that rocked his hips back against Alistair who still wasn’t moving, eyes open but unfocused, every muscle in his body seeming tense, tendons cutting sharp in his arms and neck. As Anders shifted he started to lap at her again, wicked flicks of his tongue against her clit, then a long drag over her hole before he pushed his tongue inside and twisted it in a way she couldn’t even imagine what that looked like. 

“Can… Can I move? Anders?” Alistair’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. He was flushed red halfway down his chest, but Hawke was sure most of that was just the effort of holding back, and when she gave a ragged gasp as Anders nodded vigorously, rocking the blade of his nose against her clit, his eyes snapped up to hers and he smiled, and it was like trying to look at the fucking sun. 

The look he gave her, the one that said, _mine_... she loved it so fucking much, and it broke like a wave of hot prickles all over her sweat glazed body. She didn’t recognize her own ragged laugh in her throat and rocked her hips experimentally against Anders face. It caused them both to whine. 

Alistair’s eyes held hers as he nodded and started to move. 

The way his muscles bunched and rippled as he slowly rolled his whole body into the long, slow thrusts, fucking into Anders and pushing Anders’ face deeper into her cunt… He was just fucking beautiful. And Anders’ distraction no longer made that much of a difference because Hawke just wanted to watch this for the rest of her fucking life. The mouth between her legs was shuddering with each thrust, frantic as he lapped on the backstrokes, and Hawke knew from experience that being fucked with purpose by that cock was overwhelming. 

The heat in the room seemed to build and one of Ander’s hands that had been gripping the outside of her hip slipped under her to work a finger in along with his tongue. She could feel the way his magic built before it sizzled, hot and somehow slick, right through her. She keened when he did it, and her own power flared, sparks skittering down her and then over Anders to crackle and snap where his skin touched Alistair’s and _void_ , the sound the three of them made in that moment: if the Maker didn’t come back for that song, he didn’t fucking exist. 

“Harder, fuck, Anders, please, harder.” Hawke knew that he didn’t have much control over that, except with his magic, but she was so close now, tense and trembling and she needed more in her. 

Greedy, that was her. But Anders managed to move his mouth up and push two fingers into her, slender, long, strong as they curled up and she couldn’t believe the way she grabbed a fistful of his hair and rode his face as she came. 

That handful of hair felt like it was cutting her fingers she was gripping it so hard and Hawke focused on that as her climax ebbed. Too sensitive to be lapped and sucked she pulled him up to rest in his head on her belly, and ran her fingers against his scalp in slow strokes. The scrape of his stubble against her skin felt amazing, a sharp-good friction as Alistair pulled him and pushed him, each thrust dragging his face along with the rest of him. 

Now that he wasn’t thinking about her, he was a font of useless words, all broken syllables and breathy agreement, _yes_ and _please_ and _more_. She stroked her hand out of his hair and down his back to where she could touch Alistair’s fingers. She needed his skin too. 

“Caralyn?” He had no right to sound like that, voice low and rough, barely hanging onto the control that made his fingers tremble under hers. 

“Hm?” She rolled her head to look toward him, pushing up on one of her elbows. Anders started kissing her stomach just under her navel and she squirmed a little, suddenly ticklish to the softer touch. 

“Want you under him.” Those words were greeted by a high, needy whine from Anders. 

Hawke peered at Alistair for a moment. “That’s where I am.” 

“No, under.” He glanced down, significant and urging, and she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to derive from that. 

“Come here.” His voice was rough as he wrapped a hand under Anders’ chest and peeled him upwards, shifting both their bodies back, his strength bearing the weight. “Now, pet, scoot down.” 

Alistair was sitting back on his heels, with Anders arched in his lap, and Hawke had no idea what the fuck she was supposed to do with that. Until she scooted down because she trusted him, trusted them, and found two sets of hands hauling her further, lifting her hips until Anders could push his cock down to her entrance and slide in. 

The angle was obscene, pressing the hard ridge of him against that spot inside that made her shudder and clench, which apparently did something to him because he was _shoved_ forward with a low growl by Alistair’s next thrust. 

The slide and grind of Anders’ cock was almost without friction, Hawke was so fucking wet by now, and even though she’d come already there was a visceral, teeth-gritting pleasure at the angle, the heaviness of the two men above her. Even though Alistair was keeping Anders’ mostly upright so that they weren’t _over_ her, the strength, the presence of both of them fucking her together… she clawed a hand into her hair and pulled it until she had to grit her eyes closed against the tears that stung there. 

“Please. Please. Please.” 

She looked up again. Anders’ was pleading with each of Alistair’s thrusts. His throat was spanned by one of Alistair’s hands, arched back, freckled sun-kissed fingers looking tan against the pale white of Anders’ skin. 

“Not yet.” Alistair’s voice left his throat fervent and rough, mouth against the side of Anders’ neck as they thrust and rocked and each motion they made had Anders moving inside her in ways she hadn’t thought possible. 

“ _Please_ , love?” Anders’ breathless whine raised goosebumps on Hawke’s sweat-slick skin and she whimpered at the way Alistair’s next thrust made Anders crash against her, his hands gripping her hips so hard there would be marks from his long, clever, always-gentle fingers. 

But Alistair left those bruises using Anders’ hand, and when had he gotten so fucking good at this kind of thing? The thought of him pulling her head back by the hair while she knelt before him on the floor of her bathing chamber flashed through her mind. That had been how many months ago? No, he’d always been good at this. It just felt different now because they were really here, to _stay_ and she got to watch him fuck Anders so hard he was going to cry with pleasure, to revel together in this… could it be debauchery when you loved someone this fucking much? 

“Cara.” Anders’ voice dragged her focus back to his face, the light in his amber eyes fevered as he looked down at her. 

“Mm?” The grunt of a question turned into a ragged whine and she arched, driving her hips into his as he was pushed forward into her. 

“Bloody… that’s it, sweetheart. You’ve got to… you’ve got to come for me or he’s never going to let me.” 

“He’s stopping you how? When your cock’s in me?” Hawke took pity on him and repeated the motion of her hips and he panted, ragged and broken while Alistair hid his face in the loose mess of blond hair. “Looks like he’s barely fuckin--gah! Hanging on himself.” 

“Told me. To wait.” Anders hands started to tingle where they were closed around her hips. “For you. He’s waiting too. We’re waiting for you, sweetheart. Cara. Please. Please. _Again._.” 

The angle inside her was amazing and she was winding tight and high. It would take little enough to drive her mad this way, with no hand or tongue or cock pressing against her clit, and so fucking much pressing into her. She pulled her hand out of her hair and slid it down her belly, lower, to run her fingers along Anders’ cock as he was pulled back by Alistair. The three-beat rhythm of it, Alistair drawing back, then drawing Anders onto his cock, and then thrusting forward to fuck back into her, she could feel it more touching him there, the way he twitched and shuddered as he was drawn out. Feeling the soaking wet slide of his skin out of her, under her fingers, the push back in, it was too much and she ground her palm against her clit, rocking her hips as best as she could. 

The end came quick after that, and so did Hawke, the pressure just enough to send her falling, keening, crashing over the edge, wild with sparks that burned bright even through her eyelids, sharp snaps of violet-white that she only just kept from burning real holes in the sheets. The flare of her magic made Anders keen, his own power answering, tangling with hers and flaring back, and then he was pounded into her with Alistair’s weight, both of them bucking and spasming, just enough out of rhythm that she couldn’t find purchase, could only ride it. 

And her voice echoed Anders’ earlier words. _Please, please, please._ Because she didn’t want it ever to end.

*******

Alistair had decided there were just a lot of benefits to having lovers who were mages. The sparks and things that they both did with their hands, and Anders occasionally with his tongue, made him go cross-eyed. There was never any shortage of hot water, even when they were too tired to make it to the bathtub with its heating runes and dwarven plumbing. And Anders’ knack for healing made the aches and strains and occasional bruises from their more ambitious attempts fade quickly, unless someone wanted them not to for some reason.

For example, now. Anders had taken care of the twinge in his lower back, and whatever soreness Alistair had likely caused him with the vigorous round of… that. Lovemaking. He flushed as he watched Anders run gentle hands over the lines of Caralyn’s thighs, up against her sex, and when she moaned he soothed her, kissed her, and Alistair could feel the faint tingle of magic in the air as he eased whatever discomfort she was complaining of. 

“Bathtub?” he asked them. It was big enough, and there was no reason not to pile in together, not now. As long as they were both able to stand up, and Anders had seen to that. 

“Andraste’s knickers, yes.” Anders lurched to his feet first. “Give me a minute and I’ll get it started.” He shuffled away and Alistair let his eyes follow for a moment before he leaned down to brush a kiss to Caralyn’s forehead. 

“And you?” His lips brushed her skin as he asked, nose nuzzling into the damp tangle of her hairline. She smelled like sex and sweat and her soap and _them_. He breathed deeper. 

“That means moving right?” she murmured. He thought she meant it as a grumble, but her mouth was too soft with contentment, a lazy bliss almost oozing out of her, to sound like anything more serious than a purr. 

“Generally, yes, since the bed isn’t a bathtub. Would you like me to carry you?” He combed his fingers into her tangled hair, pushing it off her forehead and then kissed her mouth, slow and languid. She was so rarely soft like this, he couldn’t help but want to taste it, slicking his tongue over hers, slow and certain. This was where he belonged. 

“Mmmhmm,” she agreed around his tongue. He pulled back and she whispered, “Carry me in there, wash us both, and then just fuck me for like three more hours, all right?” 

“That sounds ambitious even for us.” He smiled against her lips and kissed her again. 

“I have faith in you.” Her mouth, kiss-bruised and red as it was, twitched into a shy half-smile. Alistair’s heart clutched and fluttered in a way that made him feel five years younger and foolish in the best of ways. She had no reason to trust, not after all the ways he’d failed to be there when she needed him most, but the way she said it… 

His answering grin made Caralyn blush and turn her face into the pillow, her hair hiding every gorgeous, confused nuance of her expression. Alistair scooped her up out of the bed and hitched her high into his arms, with a little of grunt of effort. She wasn’t too heavy, but he was _tired_ so it was a blessing the bathroom wasn’t far away. 

“I see how it is. I have to go draw the bath, and she gets carried around.” Anders leaned in the door to her… pass through closet? Dressing room? It connected the bedroom to the bathing chamber, which made this all much easier since they didn’t have to put on clothes over sticky bodies just to avoid scandalizing Bodahn and Sandal and Orana passing through the halls. 

“I’m fucking exhausted,” she grumbled even as her arms twined around his neck and her mouth slid up to his ear. She let out a tiny wheeze when his arms tightened too hard around her. 

“You just asked me to fuck you for three more hours!” Alistair’s exclamation was half-laugh and Anders snorted. 

“You’ve become a greedy lecher in a remarkably short amount of time, Hawke.” Anders eyes glittered with mischief. 

“I’m pretty sure that isn’t my fault. If it were up to Alistair we would have fucked in the Viscount’s Keep right there on the carpet.” She didn’t sound put out about the suggestion, but he still blushed as she recalled it.

“I’d have thought the table?” Anders shifted his weight and nodded toward the bathroom, so Alistair gave her another hitch and walked that direction with his ears burning. 

“Table or carpet?” Caralyn could apparently demand answers, bossy and tart, even with her lips poised to close around the lobe of his ear. She caught it in her teeth as he dithered on the answer, a scrape just sharp enough to sting. 

“Maker’s breath! The table!” Alistair hoped he didn’t sound as shrill out loud as he did to himself. 

“Well, at least you’re not a complete barbarian.” Anders sounded entirely too amused as he fell into step behind them, and Alistair should have expected, should have _known_ that those clever fingers would pinch his bare bottom as he stepped over the threshold into the dressing room. 

He gave a startled yelp which made Caralyn grumble and start wriggling to be put down. “If you two are going to wrestle, I want clear of it.” The way she twisted and shifted in his arms made him hold tighter, closer. 

Alistair couldn’t believe how much he needed from her. From them both. He shook his head. “We’re not wrestling. Washing and the sex for three more hours, remember?” She subsided with a huff of laughter. He crossed the threshold into the bath, the air warm with scented steam, the tiles always shockingly cold in comparison under his feet. 

When he reached the tub he finally let her slip down out of his arms so that she could slide over the side into the half-full basin. She sprawled in the water, head thrown back, every full curve and graceful dip of her body visible under the surface that rose slowly over her, licking its way up in a way that put him in mind of Anders mouth for some reason. 

The man in question sidled up next to him, a hand smoothing up Alistair’s back. “She doesn’t usually do that,” he murmured quietly. 

“Are you sure? She smells too nice not to be bathing regularly.” He shot Anders a sidelong smile. She lay back far enough that her hair was wet and her ears were under the water. Her eyes were even closed and he still found himself worried that she was going to scowl because they were talking about her. 

“You know what I mean.” Each word in that sentence was a mild rebuke, but they were also full of amused affection. 

Alistair did know what Anders meant. She was letting them look at her, talk about her, unguarded, unwary, and she was just… perfect. She was perfect. He turned his head to catch Anders staring down at her with the same word written in the devoted, devastated curve of his eyebrows. “Is it your turn to spoil it or mine?” 

Anders snorted loudly and shook his head, knocking his shoulder into Alistair’s. “Probably mine.” He sighed, only part of his resignation faked, Alistair could tell. He sat on the edge and swung his legs over to sink his feet into the water, and beckoned Alistair to join him. 

It was a long, languid affair, full of caressing hands and kissing mouths and all the simple, gentle pleasure he’d ever imagined could happen between them, once he’d dared to let himself dream these ridiculous dreams. It shouldn’t have been possible, not with the way he’d stumbled, drunk, a boor and a buffoon, into her life. So when he spread her legs and lifted her hips up out of the water, her head resting in the crook of Anders’ shoulder and licked and sucked her to another bucking climax, he wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a dream. But if it was, it was a better one than any demon had ever offered in the Fade.

*******

“Easy, pet. Shh. Easy.” Alistair’s chest was broad and damp and hot against her tits and Caralyn was sure she’d never been this fuck-drunk in her life. One of his big hands slid up and down her side, the other tangled in her hair, a heavy anchor against the way she just wanted to float away. “Relax, Caralyn.”

After the bath there’d been more kissing and touching and before long both of them had been hard and eager and she’d just wanted. _Wanted_. “Both,” she’d whispered. “Now.” 

Which was how she found herself spread and bent, Alistair’s cock a brand inside her, his heart hammering under her, with Anders’ slick, clever fingers brushing the tight ring of her ass in slow, teasing circles. 

Another long shudder wracked her and she wanted to growl, to snarl, “Just fuck me,” but she knew they’d ignore her. She rocked her hips, grinding down and the hand on her side moved and fell with a light slap against her rump. 

She whined and trembled and when he drew back his hand again she made her muscles go languid, let herself melt against him. She was rewarded with the slow push of Anders’ finger inside her, slick and almost too warm, already tingling with whatever the fuck he did with his magic to make it ache inside her with pleasure. The way she bore down, rutting up against his hand also drove Alistair deeper and he moaned and pulled her hair tighter, lifting her face so he could take her mouth, tongue as slick and spearing as Anders’ finger. 

The press became thrusts, echoing the rhythm of how she rocked against it and Alistair licked into her mouth like he was keeping time. One finger became two and already it felt like every part of her was full - how could there be more - as Anders stretched and slid and soothed and sparked. She couldn’t even kiss back, just let Alistair have her mouth with his, whimpering and moaning and keening around his tongue. 

When he let her head settle against his chest again, cradled carefully so that her cheek pressed close, his chest hair tickling her eyelashes as she blinked in slow, dazed passes, she felt him lift his head and look up at Anders. His heart was beating hard in the cavern of his chest, his breath hitching, and she made a disconsolate sound because she couldn’t see whatever it was Anders was doing to make him flex and roll his hips so that he rocked within her, gentle and slow. 

“Shh, love, he’s almost there.” 

The fingers slipped out and away and she shivered, because they’d never done this. Anders had never pressed the blunt head of his cock against her and eased in-in-in until he was seated deep, sharp wings of his hipbones cutting against the taut arc of her ass. He’d never feathered his hands over her lower back as he did it, never whispered her name, low and again, never murmured nonsense about how good, how easy, how open she was. 

And that was true. She’d never been this heavy, this pliant, this perfectly suspended between them as they both filled her. Anders’ forehead pressed against her ear and he kissed her jaw. “I love you, Cara. So bloody much.” There was too much in his voice for it to fit in his throat, but it wasn’t Justice, it was just Anders, letting himself love her, love _them_ for all they were worth. 

“ _Please?_ ,” she mewled back. “Please.” 

So they gave. Because she asked. Not because they could take, and they could have, she’d have let them take anything. But this was giving. The way they sank in, stretching, encompassing from the inside, and then receded, letting her breathe and beg for them to stay. A slowly urgency built in the rolling waves of the sensation and every sound out of her mouth a paean and a sob. 

It was merciless because she didn’t need mercy. She needed them.

Her hand curled at Alistair’s shoulder, fingers twitching and fluttering but not gripping - though she could have. But they had her. She didn’t need to hold on. 

It was a wonder she could still see for the sensation. Anders’ arm bracketing Alistair’s shoulder, his larger arm lifted to curl around them both. The want was bleeding away under the fact that she had them as they had her. Cocks sliding so near each other, holes filled, answering each of her weak whispered queries with more, more, more. When she came it was a violent, silent storm that they couldn’t resist any more than she could hold it back.

*******

The fire in the hearth was low and Anders had snuffed most of the lamps when they’d finished cleaning up and collapsed. He always left at least one lamp burning for Cara’s sake. He knew she noticed but they never spoke of it, and that was fine. There were plenty of things neither of them needed to belabor with words.

Hawke’s fear of the dark. His fear of the future. 

She sighed where she was turned on her side, back to him. Was she awake? He lowered the pages of his manuscript that he’d been reading through even though his eyes burned with his exhaustion and the dim. After so much indulgence Justice was restless, and this was the easiest way to quiet him. 

She was awake, he could hear it in her breathing, and he turned his head to watch her. Her head was pillowed on her arm, lost almost entirely in the dark sea of her hair, but her hand raised and lightly brushed against the hair at Alistair’s temple. 

Of course _he_ was sleeping. The ass. 

Not that he hadn’t earned it… not after the athletic excess of their evening. It was just hardly fair how Alistair could drop off almost instantly once he’d decided it was time. Of course he hadn’t invited a spirit to possess him who found sleep to be a luxury instead of a necessity.

Alistair’s mouth closed and he swallowed, head turning toward Hawke, but he slept without waking. She slowly threaded her fingers through his hair, combing back from his high forehead. Her other hand moved to rest on his neck, fingers feather-light against his pulse. 

His throat bobbed again in his sleep, under her thumb, and her breath hitched, a tiny twitch in her shoulders, a catch in her throat Anders almost couldn’t hear. Should he even be watching this? It seemed…. private. Which was surprising considering everything else they’d done that hadn’t felt private at all. 

This tenderness felt special and tentative and it wasn’t his, which was fine. He had no expectation of her loving the both of them exactly the same way.

Anders was still baffled that she had decided to love them at all. 

Well, Alistair he could see, as bloody handsome as he was. Since he’d moved in the exhaustion had faded from his features, and though the freckles had started to fade along with the dissipating heat of early autumn, all the recovery work he continued to do in Lowtown had sculpted him quite nicely. He looked healthy. 

And Cara… His eyes skipped down the sinuous curve of her spine, to where it disappeared under the blanket that had dropped to her hip. He could see the dark, jagged seam of the scar where the Arishok’s blade had run through her. It was less angry looking after all the extra healing he’d poured into her every time he could get her to sit still for it, but it would always be there. Her ribs had stopped showing through her skin as well, another blessing. 

His own skinny frame had filled in a little since she’d been insisting on meals, proper meals, and with Alistair there he had little reason to be bashful about his appetite, since the other man certainly wasn’t. Grey Wardens usually weren’t. 

The scabrous itch of the taint, usually ignored under his magic, his spirit, the drive of his goals, suddenly seemed very loud. 

He swallowed hard, ignoring the sudden intrusive assurance that the length of their lives meant nothing next to their cause. Justice was no good at comfort. Just utter rubbish. 

“What are you brooding about back there?” she whispered, head turning to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. 

“Hm?” Anders startled, a sudden flush of guilt rising heated in his cheeks. The sheaf of papers he’d let rest on his chest as he stared at her back fell next to him on the bed, and a few slipped off onto the floor with a soft shuffle. 

“I can feel it when you fucking brood, so what is it?” Cara’s voice was still very low and she rolled slowly onto her back, careful not to disturb Alistair. It only partially worked. He didn’t wake, but his brow furrowed and he grumbled something unintelligible that ended in a soft sigh. 

“Brooding isn’t the same as thinking,” he whispered back. 

“It is when you do it.” Her voice sounded worried, too soft to be grumpy, and her free hand groped for and found his, threading their fingers together.

It was too late and they were too tired for him to explain any of what he’d been thinking about. They would have to eventually talk about the Wardens, and how she’d managed to wind up with two lovers who would die young and mad, but not tonight. It was too late for it to do anything other than hurt her. Unfortunately, he was rarely particularly kind when he wanted to avoid talking about something. “You’re thinking of Fenris. He’s the brooder. Which is unconscionably rude, here in our bed.” 

Cara snorted. “Well, since he was here first...” 

“Oh, please, don’t. I don’t need that image chasing me through my nightmares.” What would have become of them if Fenris hadn’t left her after that first night was an uncomfortable thought, an impossible one. 

Hawke stiffened, and then said in a low hiss, “As if you were going to sleep.” 

And just like that they were arguing. “Well, not with you harassing me.”

They lapsed into sudden silence. Any moment she’d draw her hand back, take it away, turn back to Alistair and Anders could continue orbiting them from the outside. It was safest that way. The expectation echoed with a dull dread in his chest. 

Instead she carefully pulled away from Alistair and turned toward Anders, cuddling into the cold outer curve of his arm. “You’re such an asshole.” 

“I am.” 

“I love you.” 

Anders couldn’t find the words that went after that. _I love you, too_ seemed trite. Pale compared to the ocean of grief he was ready to suffer, already suffering in some ways, for love of her. She was going to hate him some day and he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about that. 

“Luckily you don’t just love the asshole. You also love the hero.” 

The silence stretched next to him and he had to tip his head to look down at her, where she’d closed her eyes. Was she asleep again? But no, he watched her squeeze her eyes tighter and a tear slipped down her temple into her hair. 

He let the rest of the papers fall next to him, more cascading off the bed, in order to reach for her face and cup her cheek, thumb brushing that tear away. 

She jerked her head back away from his hand, scowl closing hard and tight in a way that made his chest hurt, because she’d been open, so achingly open before. “You don’t have to fucking do that.” 

“You’ll get a soggy pillow otherwise.” And this was why. Because he was, as she’d pointed out so often, a bit of an asshole. 

“Fuck you. You don’t have to pretend to be worth less than him. You’re not. You’re both fucking everything. Didn’t I… did I not make that clear?” She sniffled, rough and watery and shook her head which pressed her cheek back into his hand. 

“Cara. Sweetheart, of course you did. I…” He had no excuse. It wasn’t even jealousy that had made him say that. It was just the surety that he was only borrowing what Alistair had bought, and all this would end eventually. It would feel like the blink of an eye. 

“Well, don’t do that then. It hurts me.” That… was strange. Anders wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her make a complaint about her feelings being hurt… not like that. Not so straightforwardly. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and meant it. 

She lifted her face and blinked up at him, as if trying to find a way that he was being flip in the shape of his mouth or the color of his eyes since there was nothing in the words themselves. He leaned down and kissed her. 

He never could resist her mouth. Even before he’d allowed himself to think too much about what it would be like to kiss her, he’d watched her scowl and snarl and shout and curse and so very rarely smile… she’d finally begun to do more of that last. Perhaps because she was so often kissed now?

It was a nice thought. 

It ended with her pushing gently against his chest and he pulled back just far enough that his lips still brushed hers when she whispered, “I forgive you. I guess.” 

Any change in the breathing of the man behind her had gone unnoticed, so when Alistair grumbled, “Good,” she startled against Anders and the knock of her forehead against his nose brought a burst of stars and pain and bloody void that _hurt_. 

“Ow.” 

“Fuck. Sorry. He was supposed to be asleep.” 

Anders could barely see through the watering of his eyes Cara turn and smack Alistair’s shoulder as he rolled over and scooted in behind her. 

“You were supposed to be asleep.” Her voice, accusing, affronted, was also far less guarded than it had been before the kiss, which meant Anders hadn’t ruined everything. He’d made back some of the ground he’d lost by hurting her to avoid hurting her. He really was an idiot and an asshole. 

“Well, I was. But then there was talking. And bickering. And then kissing.” Alistair nuzzled into her hair as his arm slid over her waist to reach across and rest a hand lightly on Anders’ side. “So now that you’re sorry and forgiven and the kiss is over, can we please, all of us, go to sleep?” 

The calluses on Alistair’s broad hand scraped lightly against Anders’ skin as he squeezed and drew him closer with careful pressure. Cara made a grumbly little noise as he pressed into her, but didn’t shift or fret or push, and that was enough to let him know she wasn’t opposed to being smothered for a few minutes at least. 

The pages of his manuscript were scattered on the floor and Justice buzzed uncomfortably in the base of his skull, but with the sweet press of Caralyn’s mouth at the hollow of his throat, and Alistair’s hand running the length of his flank, soothing and slow even after his eyes had fallen closed, it was enough to make Anders relent. Because it was what Alistair wanted. What Cara needed. 

And Andraste’s ass he was a fool for letting himself do it, but he couldn’t help but love them with every single tiny part of him that still belonged wholly to himself, and try to believe that this wasn’t just for now. 

For Caralyn and Alistair? He’d reach for always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this nearly completes the first big arc of Caralyn Hawke's story. There will be an epilogue. There will be sequels. There will be oneshots and ficlets on tumblr. 
> 
> Thank you endlessly to everyone who has read and kudosed and recced and commented. I know I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it, you guys, DA fandom, all this community stuff, really helped save my life. 
> 
> Even when I haven't been able to reply to every comment, respond to every question, or fill every prompt I've cherished them all.


	54. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things almost seem normal for Hawke, but of course they're not.

If Hawke had to choose one of the worst things about sharing her bed with two grown men who had the occasional sweating, panicked nightmare, it wasn’t the nights they woke up panting and clammy almost in unison. No, it was the fucking mornings when they’d managed a decent night’s sleep and decided dawn was absolutely an appropriate time to be done sleeping, to get on with their day, and that waking her up was anywhere in the neighborhood of a good plan. 

The worst. 

As warm lips trailed along her shoulder up to her neck, Hawke wasn’t even sure who it was; she just wished he’d stop it. “Fucking sleeping.” She muttered the words into her pillow as she rolled onto her stomach. 

The hand that slid down her back was wide and callused, warm but without the tingle that Anders’ skin carried with it. 

“Alistair.” Hawke’s groan was more of a whine than a growl and she could feel the puff of his breath as he laughed into her hair. His hand settled into the curve of her waist and he subsided, the bulk of his body resting against her, one of his legs hooking over hers, drawing her close. “Why this?” she grumbled. 

“Because somebody told me, and I can’t remember right now who it might have been, that you don’t like it when we leave without waking you.”

Well that was true. Hawke huffed and arched, stretching her back and then relaxing back into the mattress. “Too fucking early.” 

“Tell him that.”

“Tell him what?” Anders voice was more distant, slightly muffled, from the direction of the pass-through dressing room. 

“You know what.” This time Hawke managed the growl. He insisted, as many days as they were in Kirkwall, on keeping the lamps lit from sunup to sundown. The main reason she’d taken to working on those shitty little fetch-carry-kill jobs outside the city walls again, despite being the Champion, despite the discontented face that Bran made when she wasn’t at his beck and call, was to keep Anders from working himself to death. He wouldn’t let her -- them -- go without him. 

And with the larger tent that Sandal had enchanted against the weather -- it shed rain and muffled sound as well as stone walls now -- the excursions weren’t terrible at all. They were… good. 

Well maybe a little terrible for Varric and Merrill, who usually rounded out the party. Not that they complained. Varric pretended nothing was going on, but he took a fuck lot of notes. Merrill asked falsely innocent questions and then giggled when Alistair stammered and blushed. 

Isabela would have been proud. If she’d ever come home to hear about it. Fucking pirate. 

So, this was the system they’d worked out: Anders would wake early, spurred by Justice and unable to quiet the spirit for too many hours at a time. His stirring would roust Alistair and after their first breakfast, they’d nudge Hawke awake and then leave for the clinic. She would go back to sleep for a few hours like a sane person. 

Around lunch time Alistair would come back upstairs and by then she’d be more than ready for a distraction from the trivial bullshit annoyances that being Champion brought to her door. He’d spend the afternoon reading or rubbing her feet or fucking her into the mattress or running errands with her in Lowtown. 

Before dinner they would collect Anders and bring him home. 

It was all bafflingly domestic. Peaceful. In no way normal in Hawke’s experience. Pleasurable in a way that made her ache. 

She was terrified to trust it. She found herself giving in to it anyway. 

When she grew stir-crazy, or Anders seemed in danger of disappearing on her, they went to the coast or up Sundermount to kill slavers or bandits or forage for herbs and almost always get attacked by spiders or wild dogs. 

And those were the times that felt the most real, with the smell of lightning and blood, bruises and cuts and rashvine blisters, all together and unfettered by the stone and stench of Kirkwall. It was all Hawke wanted, and perfect in a way that made the rest of her life feel like a trap. 

Even mornings like these, when Alistair was rubbing the small of her back with his thumb in broad swipes and slow circles, the mattress soft and the sheets clean. Maybe especially mornings like these. A good trap, but still a trap. 

Alistair was still against her, skin warm and hips angled so she couldn’t tell if he was hard. His face was buried in the pile of her hair and his breathing was deep and even. No demands or suggestions -- just asking her for her to let him stay close. 

Maybe he’d had a nightmare last night after all. Not one of the Warden dreams no one would really explain to her, but something that made his hand and hooked leg tighten slightly and then relax, as if testing that she was still there. 

It didn’t matter if she knew exactly. Her awareness of Alistair was like the way she felt storms still far out to sea, deep in her bones without having to think about it. He was content here, heavy and half-asleep, petting the line of her spine and always shying away from the scar from the Arishok’s blade. He’d trace the edge of it, but never across the top of the ragged ridge and fissure itself. She hated the feeling of their hands catching on it, and he knew it, so he left it alone even when she knew he wanted to remind himself the wound was closed and she was whole. She loved him for that. 

She loved him for a lot of reasons. 

With a sigh, Hawke arched again, lifting her hips a little against the press of his leg draped over her thighs, and smiled when his hand drifted lower to her ass. 

He squeezed, thumb tracing the cleft, then slid it back up to her waist.

She could almost feel the grin against her neck, the asshole. Well there wasn’t any reason to not shift and turn, burrowing deep under his arm and bite him right below his collarbone. Hard enough to make him yelp. 

“Ow. Ouch! What was that for! You said -- _you said_ \-- you were sleeping! I was letting you -- ow, stop you demon.” His hands grabbed her, rolled her onto her back and his broad weight had her pinned easy as that, cock thick and half-hard against her thigh. “Help, Anders, I think she’s possessed. Made a deal with ah-- something to get more sleep.” He could barely put the sentence together as Hawke hooked her legs around his hips and ground herself up against him. 

“It’s not the most sensitive jest you could have made, given the circumstances.” Anders plopped onto the bed next to them, mouth pulled in a wry smile. “I am actually possessed, remember?” 

Hawke’s snort turned into a ragged gasp as Alistair slid a hand between them, cupped over her mound so that she was grinding against the hard heel of his hand. His fingers parted her labia, tips just teasing her cunt. 

Very little talking followed. Alistair let her rut and whimper while he teased her with his right hand, the left holding his weight next to her head. It left room for Anders’ mouth to roam as he kissed her lips, her throat, lower to take large, sucking mouthfuls of her breasts. 

It was torture. Fuck, she loved them. 

A simple kind of pyre, burning between them. It wasn’t always so instinctive and easy, not always sweet or kind, but this morning when Alistair slid inside her, when she twisted and begged, it felt like a gift. Which was maybe the bait in the trap? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure it mattered as Anders lay sprawled alongside, taking her mouth with his tongue, kisses that tasted like the raw Fade.

It was so sweet, kisses and soft words, and her senses so _full_ of them, like a waterfall. Just hard enough, scouring, a roaring that filled her, until she finally gave, came clenching and keening with them.

*** **** ***** **** ***

It hadn’t been an average morning after all. Even Hawke could find nothing average about being a roast on a spit between Alistair and Anders. She smiled at her desk, which no one who knew her would believe since they weren’t there to see it, and shuffled papers from one pile to another.

The one on top was marked with the de Launcet seal. It got moved to pile number two, ignored again. The second pile might have been inside the fireplace. She was too busy smiling to feel even remotely bad about it. 

The tea in her cup hadn’t even gone cold, and she sipped it while tossing three more ornate parchment missives from various Hightown fuckwits into the fire as well. 

The first slam didn’t register, muffled by the bulk of her house, beyond perhaps a hand cart tipped in the street, or a door slammed in some rude petitioner’s face. Not that Bodahn ever slammed the door. 

A second window-rattling thump drew her eyes to the door. Had Sandal planned an experiment today? Usually someone let her know if there was something explosive in the house -- safer that way, for everyone actually. 

Was that… No, it was definitely scuffling, muffled feet on the stairs. Hawke reached for the staff she kept propped against the wall behind her, and the door exploded with her head turned, slamming her against the wall, ears ringing and the scent of sulfur and lyrium dust -- not quite like _gaatlok_ but close enough to draw the clawing exhaustion and fear from that day back right up into her throat. The smoke would clear and there would be Qunari streaming through the broken door, each with a sword half as wide as her torso to cut her in half with. 

She shook her head, pushing off the wall, ears ringing with a high pitched whine that wasn’t quite so loud as to drown out the flat surfacer accent -- dwarf, not Qunari at all -- shouting, “Blood of the Hawk!” 

No, apparently it was nothing like a fucking average day at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. There's that. 
> 
> This chapter was to give a little coda to this arc: Hawke and Alistair and Anders settling in with each other and starting to heal of their various wounds. A bit of a fluffilogue if you will. I am working on a sequel of smaller scope involving the events of the Legacy DLC, hence the wee cliffhanger, but if you want to imagine Caralyn, Alistair, and Anders just having lots of sex and living happily ever after, I won't blame you. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who made it this far with me, and apologize for the long wait. I've said it before, I'll say it again, writing for the DA fandom saved my life. You guys are amazing. 
> 
> *blows kisses*

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more of my nonsense on tumblr at [Void and Nonsense](http://delazeur.tumblr.com/). See, it's right there in the title.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Morning After Cheese Pies [ART for "Questions Answered"]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529792) by [Feanor_in_leather_pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants/pseuds/Feanor_in_leather_pants)




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